ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


5732, 


FRED  M.  DKVVITT 

BOOKJSKIJLKR 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 


The  Haunted  Photograph 

Whence   and   Whither 

A  Case  in  Diplomacy 

The  Afterglow 

BY 

BUTH  McENEEY  STUAET 


ILLUSTRATED   BY  WM.    L.    JACOBS,   PETER   NEWELL, 
ETHEL  PENNEWILL  BROWN  AND  WILSON  C.  DEXTER 


NEW  YORK 
THE  CENTUEY  CO. 

1911 


Copyright,  1911,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 


Copyright,   1909.   1910.   by  Harper  *  Brother! 
Copyright,   1909.  by  The  Pemrnon  Publishing  Co. 
Copyright.   1910,   by  The  Sunny  South  Pub.  C». 


Published,  October  1911 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

I.  THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGBAPH  .      .  3 

II.  WHENCE  AND  WHITHER     ...  35 

III.  A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY     ...  93 

IV.  THE  AFTERGLOW                      .      .  133 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

Do  I  look  strange,  I  wonder?     .     Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

She  fanned  herself  with  the  asbestos  mat     .     10 
The  cat  glaring  at  the  picture     ....     12 

She  succumbed,  green  as  the  Ganges,  into 
her  own  egg-basket 18 

Sally  Ann  Salisbury 38 

''How    much  '11    you    pay    me     for    her, 
Charley?" 76 

"Seem  like  a  pity  to  part   'em"     .      .      .     88 
"No,  sir!     Notyit!     Not  on  paper!"     .      .     96 

"Git — git — git  out  de  marry  in '-book,  please, 
sir" 128 

"Why,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  did  I  encourage 
this  quiet  man!  ....  158 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

TO  the  ordinary  observer  it  was  just  a 
common  photograph  of  a  cheap  sum 
mer  hotel.  It  hung,  sumptuously  framed 
in  plush,  over  the  widow  Morris's  mantel, 
the  one  resplendent  note  in  an  otherwise 
modest  home,  in  a  characteristic  Queen 
Anne  village. 

One  had  only  to  see  the  rapt  face  of  its 
owner  as  she  sat  in  her  weeds  before  the 
picture  which  she  tearfully  pronounced 
"a  strikin'  likeness,"  to  sympathize  with 
the  townsfolk  who  looked  askance  at  the 
bereaved  woman,  even  while  they  bore  with 
her  delusion,  feeling  sure  that  her  sudden 
sorrow  had  set  her  mind  agog. 

When    she    had    received    the    picture 
through  the  mail,  some  months  before  the 
fire    which    consumed    the    hotel — a    fire 
3 


.-:  ;;TIIE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

through  which  she  had  not  passed  but  out 
of  which  she  had  come  a  widow — she 
proudly  handed  it  around  among  the 
friends  waiting  with  her  at  the  post  office, 
replying  to  their  questions  as  they  admired 
it: 

1 '  Oh,  yes !  that 's  where  he  works — if  you 
can  call  it  work.  He  's  the  head  steward 
in  it.  All  that  row  o'  winders  where  you 
see  the  awnin's  down,  they  're  his — an' 
them  that  ain't  down,  they  're  his,  too — 
that  is  to  say  it  's  his  jurusdiction. 

"You  see,  he  's  got  the  whiphand  over 
the  cook  an'  the  sto'e-room,  an'  that  key 
don't  go  out  o'  his  belt  unless  he  knows 
who  's  gettin'  what — an'  he  's  firm.  Mor 
ris  always  was.  He  's  like  the  iron  law  of 
the  Ephesians." 

"Whafkeyt" 

It  was  an  old  lady  who  held  the  picture  at 

arm's  length  the  more  closely  to  scan  it, 

who   asked   the   question.     She   asked   it, 

partly  to  know,  as  neither  man  nor  key  ap- 

4 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

peared  in  the  photograph,  and  partly  to 
parry  the  "historic  allusion" — a  disturb 
ing  sort  of  fire  for  which  Mrs.  Morris  was 
rather  noted  and  which  made  some  of  her 
most  loyal  townsfolk  a  bit  shy  of  her. 

"Oh,  I  ain't  referrin'  to  the  picture," 
she  hastened  to  explain;  "I  mean  the  keys 
thet  he  always  carries  in  his  belt.  The 
reg'lar  joke  there  is  to  call  him  'St.  Peter,7 
an7  he  takes  it  in  good  part,  for,  he  de 
clares,  if  there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  simili 
tude  to  the  kingdom  o'  Heaven  in  a  hotel, 
why  it  's  in  the  providential  supply  depart 
ment  which  in  a  manner  hangs  to  his  belt. 
He  always  humors  a  joke — 'specially  on 
himself. ' 9 

No  one  will  ever  know  through  what 
painful  periods  of  unrequited  longing  the 
widow  Morris  had  sought  solace  in  this,  her 
only  cherished  "relic,"  after  the  "half 
hour  of  sky-works"  which  had  made  her, 
in  her  own  vernacular,  "a  lonely,  confla 
grated  widow  with  a  heart  full  of  ashes," 
5 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

before  the  glad  moment  when  it  was  given 
her  to  discern  in  it  an  unsuspected  and 
novel  value.  First  had  come  as  a  faint 
gleam  of  comfort,  the  reflection  that  al 
though  her  dear  lost  one  was  not  in  evi 
dence  in  the  picture,  he  had  really  been 
inside  the  building  when  the  photograph 
was  taken,  and  so,  of  course,  he  must  be  in 
there  yet! 

At  first  she  experienced  a  slight  disap 
pointment  that  her  man  was  not  visible,  at 
door  or  window.  But  it  was  only  a  passing 
regret.  It  was  really  better  to  feel  him 
surely  and  broadly  within — at  large  in  the 
great  house,  free  to  pass  at  will  from  one 
room  to  another.  To  have  had  him  fixed 
no  matter  how  effectively  would  have  been 
a  limitation.  As  it  was,  she  pressed  the 
picture  to  her  bosom  as  she  wondered  if 
perchance,  he  would  not  some  day  come  out 
of  his  hiding  to  meet  her. 

It  was  a  muffled  pleasure  and  tremu 
lously  entertained,  at  first,  but  the  very 
6 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGBAPH 

whimsicality  of  it  was  an  appeal  to  her 
sensitized  imagination  and  so,  when,  finally, 
the  thing  did  really  happen,  it  is  small 
wonder  that  it  came  somewhat  as  a  shock. 

It  appears  that,  one  day,  feeling  par 
ticularly  lonely  and  forlorn,  and  having  no 
other  comfort,  she  was  pressing  her  tear- 
stained  face  against  the  row  of  window- 
shutters  in  the  room  without  awnings,  this 
being  her  nearest  approach  to  the  alleged 
occupant's  bosom,  when  she  was  suddenly 
startled  by  a  peculiar  swishing  sound,  as 
of  wind-blown  rain,  whereupon  she  lifted 
her  face  to  perceive  that  it  was  indeed 
raining  and  then,  glancing  back  at  the  pho 
tograph,  she  distinctly  saw  her  husband 
rushing  from  one  window  to  another,  draw 
ing  down  the  sashes  on  the  side  of  the 
house  that  would  have  been  exposed  to  the 
real  shower  whose  music  was  in  her  ears. 

This  was  a  great  discovery,  and,  natu 
rally  enough,  it  set  her  weeping  for,  she 
sobbed,  "it  made  her  feel,  for  a  minute, 
7 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

that  she  had  lost  her  widowhood  and  that, 
after  the  shower,  he  'd  be  coming  home." 

It  might  well  make  any  one  cry  to  sud 
denly  lose  the  pivot  upon  which  his  emo 
tions  are  swung.  At  any  rate,  Mrs.  Morris 
cried.  She  said  that  she  cried  all  night, 
first  because  it  seemed  so  spooky  to  see  him 
whose  remains  she  had  so  recently  buried 
on  faith,  waiving  recognition  in  the  debris, 
dashing  about  now  in  so  matter  of  fact  a 
way. 

And  then,  she  wept  because,  after  all,  he 
did  not  come. 

This  was  the  formal  beginning  of  her 
sense  of  personal  companionship  in  the  pic 
ture.  Companionship?  Yes,  of  delight  in 
it,  and  I  use  the  word  with  malice  pre 
pense,  for  there  is  even  delight  in  tears — 
in  some  situations  in  life.  Especially  is 
this  true  of  one  whose  emotions  are  her 
only  guides,  as  seems  to  have  been  the  case 
with  the  widow  Morris. 

After  seeing  him  draw  the  window  sashes 
8 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

—and  lie  had  drawn  them  down,  ignoring 
her  presence — she  sat  for  hours,  waiting 
for  the  rain  to  stop,  but  it  seemed  to  have 
set  in  for  a  long  spell,  for  when  she  finally 
fell  asleep,  "from  sheer  disappointment, 

'long  towards  morning/7  it  was  still  rain 
ing,  and  when  she  awoke,  the  sun  shone 
and  all  the  windows  in  the  picture  were  up 
again. 

This  was  a  misleading  experience,  how 
ever,  for  she  soon  discovered  that  she  could 
not  count  upon  any  line  of  conduct  by  the 
man  in  the  hotel  as  the  fact  that  it  had  one 
time  rained  in  the  photograph  at  the  same 
time  that  it  rained  outside  was  but  a  coin 
cidence  and  she  was  soon  surprised  to  per 
ceive  all  quiet  along  the  hotel  piazza,  not 
even  an  awning  flapping,  while  the  earth, 
on  her  plane,  was  torn  by  storms. 

On  one  memorable  occasion  when  her 
husband  had  appeared,  flapping  the  win 
dow-panes  from  within  with  a  towel,  she 
had  thought  for  one  brief  moment  that  he 
9 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

was  beckoning  to  her — and  that  she  might 
have  to  go  to  him,  and  she  was  beginning 
to  experience  terror  with  shortness  of 
breath  and  other  premonitions  of  sudden 
passing  when  she  discovered  that  he  was 
merely  killing  flies  and  she  flurriedly 
fanned  herself  with  the  asbestos  mat  which 
she  had  seized  from  the  stove  beside  her 
and  staggered  out  to  a  seat  under  the  mul 
berries,  as  she  stammered  in  broken  ac 
cents  : 

"I  do  de-clare,  Morris  '11  be  the  death  of 
me,  yet.  He  's  most  as  much  care  to  me 
dead  as  he  was  alive.  ...  I  made 
sure — made  sure  he  'd  come  after  me ! ' ' 

And  then,  challenging  her  own  fidelity, 
she  hastened  to  add,  "Not  that  I  hadn't 
rather  go  to  him  than  to  take  any  trip  in 
the  world,  but — but  I  never  did  fancy  that 
hotel,  and  since  I  Ve  got  used  to  seein'  him 
there  so  constant,  I  feel  sure  that  's  where 
we  ?d  put  up.  My  belief  is,  anyway,  that 
if  there  's  hereafters  for  some  things, 
10 


.. 


She  fanned  herself  with  the  asbestos  mat 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

there  's  hereafters  for  all.  From  what  I 
can  gather,  I  reckon  I  'm  a  kind  of  a  cross 
between  a  Sweden-borgeian  and  a  Gates- 
ajar — that,  of  course,  engrafted  on  to  a 
Methodist.  Now,  that  hotel,  when  it  was 
consumed  by  fire,  which  to  it  was  the  same 
as  mortal  death,  why,  it  either  ascended 
into  Heaven,  in  smoke,  or  it  fell,  in  ashes 
—to  the  other  place.  If  it  died  worthy, 
like  as  not  it  's  undergoin'  repairs  now  for 
a  ' mansion/  jasper  cupolas,  an7 — but,  of 
course,  such  as  that  could  be  run  up  in  a 
twinklin'. 

1 1  Still,  from  what  I  Ve  heard,  it  's  more 
likely  gone  down  to  its  deserts.  It  would 
seem  hard  for  a  hotel  with  so  many  awned- 
off  corridors  an'  palmed  embrasures  with 
teet-a-teet  sofas  to  live  along  without  sin." 

She  stood  on  her  step-ladder,  wiping  the 
face  of  the  picture  as  she  spoke,  and  as  she 
began  to  back  down,  she  discovered  the  cat 
under  her  elbow,  glaring  at  the  picture. 

"Yes,  Kitty!  Spit  away!"  she  ex- 
11 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

claimed.  "Like  as  not  you  see  even  more 
than  I  do!" 

And,  as  she  slipped  the  ladder  back  into 
the  closet,  she  remarked — this  to  herself, 
strictly : 

"If  it  hadn't  V  been  for  poor  Puss, 
I  'd  'a'  had  a  heap  more  pleasure  out  o' 
this  picture  than  what  I  have  had — or  will 
be  likely  to  have  again.  The  way  she's 
taken  on,  I  've  almost  come  to  hate  it ! " 

A  serpent  had  entered  her  poor  little 
Eden — even  the  green-eyed  monster  con 
strictor  who,  if  given  full  swing,  would  not 
spare  a  bone  of  her  meager  comfort. 

A  neighbor  who  chanced  to  come  in  at 
the  time,  unobserved,  overheard  the  last 
remark  and  Mrs.  Morris,  seeing  that  she 
was  there,  continued  in  an  unchanged  tone, 
while  she  gave  her  a  chair, 

"Of  course,  Mis'  Withers,  you  know  or 

can  easy  guess  who  I  refer  to.     I  mean  that 

combly-f  eatured  wench  thet  kep '  the  books 

an'  answered  the  telephone  at  the  hotel— 

12 


The  cat  glaring  at  the  picture 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

when  she  found  the  time  from  her  med- 
dlin'.  Somehow,  I  never  thought  about 
her  bein'  burned  in  with  Morris  till  Puss 
give  her  away.  Puss  never  did  like  the 
girl  when  she  was  alive  an'  the  first  time 
I  see  her  scratch  an'  spit  at  the  pic 
ture,  just  the  way  she  used  to  do  whenever 
she  come  in  sight,  why  it  just  struck  me 
like  a  clap  o'  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky 
that  Puss  knew  who  she  was  a-spittin'  at 
— an'  I  switched  around  sudden — an' 
glanced  up  sudden — an', — 

"Well,  what  I  seen,  I  seen!  There  was 
that  beautied-up  type-writer  settin'  in  the 
window-sill  o'  Morris's  butler's  pantry— 
an'  if  she  didn't  wink  at  me  malicious, 
then  I  don't  know  malice  when  I  see  it. 
An'  she  used  her  fingers  against  her  nose, 
too,  most  defiant  an'  impolite.  So  I  says 
to  Puss,  I  says,  'Puss,'  I  says,  *  there  's 
gain's  on  in  that  hotel,  sure  as  fate.  An 
nabel  Bender  has  got  the  better  o'  me,  for 
once!'  An'  tell  the  truth,  it  did  spoil  the 
13 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGKAPH 

photograph  for  me,  for  a  while,  for,  of 
course,  after  that,  if  I  did  n't  see  him  some- 
wheres  on  the  watch  for  his  faithful  spouse, 
I  'd  say  to  myself,  'He  's  inside  there  with 
that  pink-featured  hussy  I9 

"You  know  a  man  's  a  man,  Mis'  With 
ers — 'specially  Morris — an'  with  his  lawful 
wife  cut  off  an'  indefinitely  divorced  by  a 
longevitied  family — an'  another  burned  in 
with  him — well,  his  faithfulness  is  put  to  a 
trial  by  fire,  as  you  might  say.  So,  as  I 
say,  it  spoiled  the  picture  for  me,  for  a 
while. 

"An',  to  make  matters  worse,  it  wasn't 
any  time  before  I  recollected  that  Camp- 
bellite  preacher  that  was  burned  in  with 
'em,  an'  with  that,  my  imagination  run 
riot,  an'  I  'd  think  to.  myself,  'If  they  're 
inclined,  they  cert'n'y  have  things  handy!' 
Then  I  'd  ketch  myself  an'  say,  ' Where  's 
your  faith  in  Scripture,  Mary  Marthy  Mat 
thews,  named  after  two  Bible  women  an' 
Iborn  daughter  to  an  apostle?  What 's  the 
14 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

useT  I  'd  say,  an*  so,  first  an'  last,  I  'd  get 
a  sort  o'  alpha  an'  omega  comfort  out  o' 
the  passage  about  no  givin'  in  marriage. 
Still,  there  'd  be  times,  pray  as  I  would, 
when  them  three  would  loom  up,  him  an' 
her — an'  the  Campbellite  preacher.  I 
know  his  license  to  marry  would  run  out 
in  time,  but  for  eternity,  of  course  we  don't 
know.  Seem  like  everything  would  last 
forever — an'  then  again,  if  I  've  got  a 
widow's  freedom,  Morris  must  be  classed 
as  a  widower,  if  he  's  anything. 

"Then  I  'd  get  some  relief  in  thinkin' 
about  his  disposition.  Good  as  he  was, 
Morris  was  fickle-tasted,  not  in  the  long 
run  but  day  in  an'  day  out,  an'  even  if 
he  'd  be  taken  up  with  her,  he  'd  get  a  dis 
taste  the  minute  he  reelized  she  'd  be  there 
interminable.  That  's  Morris.  Why, 
didn't  he  used  to  get  nervous  just  seein' 
me  around,  an'  me  his  own  selected — 1 
An'  didn't  I  use  to  make  some  excuse  to 
send  him  over  to  Mame  Maddern's  ma's 
15 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

ma's — so  's  he  'd  be  harmlessly  diverted — ? 
She  was  full  o'  talk,  but  she  was  ninety- 
odd  an'  asthmatic,  an'  the  jokes  she  'd 
crack  would  all  have  to  come  through  that 
false  set.  I  recollect  he  used  to  joke  about 
her  falsetto  laugh — but  he  'd  come  home 
from  them  visits  an'  call  me  his  child  wife. 
I  've  had  my  happy  moments ! 

i  t  You  know  a  man  '11  get  tired  of  himself, 
even,  if  he  's  condemned  to  it  too  continual, 
and  think  of  that  blondinetted  type-writer 
for  a  steady  diet — to  a  man  like  Morris  I 
Imagine  her  when  her  hair-dye  started  to 
give  out — green  streaks  in  that  pompa 
dour!  So,  knowin'  my  man,  I  'd  take 
courage  an'  I  'd  think,  'Seein'  me  cut 
off,  he  '11  soon  be  wantin'  me  more  than 
ever' — an'  so  he  does.  It  's  got  so  now 
that  glance  up  at  that  hotel  any  time  I  will, 
I  can  generally  find  him  on  the  lookout,  an' 
many  's  the  time  I  've  stole  in  an'  put  on 
his  favoryte  apron  o'  mine  with  blue  bows 
on  it,  when  we  'd  be  alone  an'  nobody  to  re- 
16 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

mark  about  me  breakin'  my  mournin'. 
Dear  me,  how  full  o'  buoyancy  he  was — a 
regular  boy  at  thirty-five,  when  he  passed 
away ! ' ' 

Was  it  any  wonder  that  her  friends  ex 
changed  glances  while  Mrs.  Morris  enter 
tained  them  in  this  way?  Still,  as  time 
passed  and  she  not  only  brightened  in  the 
light  of  her  delusion  but  proceeded  to  meet 
the  changed  conditions  of  her  life  by  open 
ing  a  small  shop  in  her  home,  and  when  she 
exhibited  a  wholesome  sense  of  profit  and 
loss,  her  neighbors  were  quite  ready  to  ac 
cept  her  on  terms  of  mental  responsibility. 

With  occupation  and  a  modest  success, 
emotional  disturbance  was  surely  giving 
place  to  an  even  calm  when,  one  day,  some 
thing  happened. 

Mrs.  Morris  sat  behind  her  counter,  sort 
ing  notions,  puss  asleep  beside  her,  when 
she  heard  the  swish  of  thin  silk,  with  a 
breath  of  familiar  perfume  and,  looking 
up,  whom  did  she  see  but  the  blonde  lady 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

of  her  troubled  dreams,  striding  bodily  up 
to  the  counter,  smiling  as  she  swished. 

At  the  sight,  the  good  woman  first  rose 
to  her  feet  and  then  as  suddenly  dropped 
— flopped — breathless  and  white — back 
ward — and  had  to  be  revived,  so  that  for 
the  space  of  some  minutes,  things  hap 
pened,  very  fast — that  is,  if  we  may  believe 
the  flurried  testimony  of  the  blonde  who,  in 
going  over  it,  two  hours  later,  had  more 
than  once  to  stop  for  breath. 

*  *  Well,  say ! ' '  she  panted, ' '  Did  you  ever ! 
Such  a  turn  as  took  her!  I  hadn't  no 
more  'n  stepped  in  the  door  when  she  suc 
cumbed,  green  as  the  Ganges,  into  her  own 
egg-basket — an'  it  full!  An'  she  was  on 
the  eve  o'  floppin'  back  into  the  prunin' 
scizzor,  points  up,  when  I  scrambled  over 
the  counter,  breakin'  my  straight  front  in 
two,  which  she  's  welcome  to,  poor  thing! 
Then  I  loaned  her  my  smellin'  salts  which 
she  held  her  breath  against  until  it  got  to 
be  a  case  of  smell  or  die,  an*  she  smelt! 
18 


s 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGKAPH 

Then  it  was  a  case  of  temporary  spasms 
for  a  minute,  the  salts  spillin'  out  over 
her  face,  but  when  the  accident  evaporated, 
an'  she  had  partially  come  to,  an'  opened 
her  eyes,  rational,  I  thought  to  myself, 
*  Maybe  she  don't  know  she  's  keeled  an' 
would  be  humiliated  if  she  did,'  so  I  acted 
callous  an'  I  says,  off-hand,  like,  I  says, 
pushin'  her  apron  around  behind  her  over 
its  vice  versa,  so  's  to  cover  up  the  eggs 
which  I  thought  had  better  be  broke  to  her 
gently,  I  says,  *I  just  called  in,  Mis'  Mor 
ris,  to  borry  your  reci-pe  for  angel  cake— 
or  maybe  get  you  to  bake  one  for  us'  (I 
knew  she  baked  on  orders ) .  An '  with  that, 
what  does  she  do  but  go  over  again,  limp 
as  wet  starch,  down  an'  through  every  egg 
in  that  basket,  solid  an'  fluid! 

"Well,  by  this  time,  a  man  who  had  seen 
her  at  her  first  worst  an'  run  for  a  doctor, 
he  come  in  with  three  an'  whilst  they  were 
bowin'  to  each  other  an'  backin',  I  giv'  'er 
her  stimulus  an'  d'rectly  she  turned  upon 
19 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGKAPH 

me  one  rememberable  gaze  an'  she  says, 
t  Doctors/  says  she,  i  would  you  think 
they  'd  have  the  gall  to  try  to  get  me  to 
cook  for  'em?  They  Ve  ordered  angel — " 
An'  with  that,  over  she  toppled  again,  no 
pulse  nor  nothin'  same  as  the  dead!" 

While  the  blonde  talked,  she  busied  her 
self  with  her  loosely-falling  locks  which  she 
tried  vainly  to  entrap. 

"An'  yet,  you  say  she  ain't  classed  as 
crazy?  I  'd  say  it  of  her,  sure!  An'  so 
old  Morris  is  dead — burned  in  that  old  ho 
tel,  well,  well !  Poor  old  fellow !  Dear  old 
place!  What  times  I  Ve  had!" 

She  spoke  through  a  mouthful  of  gilt 
hairpins  and  her  voice  was  as  an  eolian 
harp. 

"An'  he  burned  in  it — an'  she  's  a 
widow,  yet !  Yes,  I  did  hear  there  'd  been 
a  fire,  but  you  never  can  tell.  I  thought 
the  chimney  might  'a'  burned  out — an'  at 
the  time  I  was  in  the  thick  of  bein'  engaged 
to  the  night  clerk  at  the  Singin '-needles 
20 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

hotel  at  Pineville — an'  there  's  no  reg 
ular  mail  there — I  thought  the  story  might 
be  exaggerated.  Oh,  no,  I  didn't  marry 
the  night  clerk.  I  'm  a  bride  now,  mar 
ried  to  the  head  steward,  same  rank  as 
poor  old  Morris — an'  we  're  just  as  happy ! 
I  used  to  pleg  Morris  about  her  hair,  but 
I  'd  have  to  let  up  on  that  now.  Mine  's 
as  red  again  as  hers.  No,  not  my  hair — 
mine  's  hair.  It  's  as  red  as  a  flannen 
drawer,  every  bit  an'  grain! 

"But,  say—  she  added  presently, 
"when  she  gets  better,  just  tell  her  never 
mind  about  that  reci-pe.  I  copied  it  out 
of  her  reci-pe  book  whilst  she  was  under 
the  weather,  an'  dropped  a  dime  in  her 
cash  drawer.  I  recollect  how  old  Morris 
used  to  look  forward  to  her  angel  cakes 
week-ends  he  'd  be  goin'  home,  an'  you 
know  there  *;s  no  thin'  like  havin'  ammuni 
tion,  in  marriage,  even  if  you  never  need 
it.  Mine  's  in  that  frame  of  mind  now 
that  transforms  my  ginger-bread  into 
21 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

angel  cake — but  the  time  may  come  when 
I  '11  have  to  beat  my  eggs  to  a  fluff  so  's 
not  to  have  it  taste  like  ginger-bread  to 
him. 

"Oh,  no,  he  's  not  with  me,  this  trip.  I 
just  run  down  for  a  lark  to  show  my  folks 
my  ring  an'  things  an'  let  'em  see  it  's 
really  so.  He  give  me  considerable  jew 
elry.  His  First's  taste  run  that  way,  an' 
they  ain't  no  children. 

"Yes,  this  amethyst  is  the  weddin'-ring. 
I  selected  that  on  account  of  him  bein'  a 
widower,  an'  the  year  not  bein'  up.  That  's 
why  he  stayed  home,  this  trip.  He  didn't 
like  to  be  seen  traversin'  the  same  old 
haunts  with  Another  till  it  was  up.  I 
would  n't  wait  because,  tell  the  truth,  I  was 
afraid. 

"He  ain't  like  a  married  man  with 
me  about  money  yet,  an'  it  's  liable  to  seize 
him  any  day.  He  might  say  that  he 
couldn't  afford  the  trip,  or  that  we 
couldn't,  which  would  amount  to  the  same 
22 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

thing.  I  rather  liked  him  bein'  a  little 
ticklish  about  goin'  around  with  me  for  a 
while.  It 's  one  thing  to  do  a  thing  an* 
another  to  be  brazen  about  it — 

"But  if  she  don't  get  better— "  the  re 
version  was  to  the  widow  Morris — "if  she 
don't  get  her  mind,  poor  thing,  there  's  a 
fine  insane  asylum  just  out  of  Pineville,  an' 
I  'd  like  the  best  in  the  world  to  look  out 
for  her,  if  they  was  to  send  her  there. 
It  would  make  an  excuse  for  me  to 
go  in.  They  say  they  have  great  old 
times  there.  Some  days  they  let  the  in 
mates  do  most  any  old  thing  that 's  harm 
less.  They  even  give  'em  unpoisonous 
paints  an'  let  'em  paint  each  other  up. 
One  man,  they  say,  insisted  he  was  a  bar 
ber-pole  an'  ringed  himself  around  accord 
ing',  an'  then  another  chased  him  around 
for  a  stick  of  peppermint-candy.  Think 
of  all  that  inside  a  close  fence,  an'  a  town 
so  dull  an'  news-hungry — 

"Yes,  they  say  Thursdays  is  paint  days, 
23 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

an',  of  course,  Fridays,  they  are  scrub 
days.  They  pass  around  turpentine  an' 
hide  the  matches. 

"But,  of  course,  Mis'  Morris  may  get 
the  better  of  it.  'T  ain'  every  woman  that 
can  stand  widowin',  an'  sometimes  them 
that  has  got  the  least  out  of  marriage  will 
seem  the  most  deprived  to  lose  it — so  they 
say. ' ' 

The  blonde  was  a  person  of  words. 

When  Mrs.  Morris  had  fully  revived  and 
after  a  restoring  "night's  sleep"  had  got 
her  bearings,  and  when  she  realized  that 
her  supposed  rival  had  actually  shown  up 
in  the  flesh,  she  visibly  braced  up.  Her 
neighbors  understood  that  it  must  have 
been  a  shock  "to  be  suddenly  confronted 
with  any  souvenir  of  the  hotel  fire" — so 
one  had  expressed  it — and  the  incident 
soon  passed  out  of  the  village  mind. 

It  was  not  long  after  this  incident  that 
the  widow  confided  to  a  friend  that  she 
24 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

was  coming  to  depend  upon  Morris  for  ad 
vice  in  her  business. 

''Standing  as  he  does,  in  that  hotel  door 
— between  two  worlds,  as  you  might  say — 
why  he  sees  both  ways,  and  oftentimes 
he  '11  detect  an  event  on  the  way  to  hap 
pening,  an'  if  it  don't  move  too  fast,  why 
I  can  hustle  an'  get  the  better  of  things. " 
It  was  as  if  she  had  a  private  wire  for  ad 
vance  information— and  she  declared  her 
self  comforted  if  not  entirely  happy. 

Indeed,  a  certain  ineffable  light,  such  as 
we  sometimes  see  in  the  eyes  of  those  newly 
in  love,  came  to  shine  from  the  face  of  the 
widow  who  did  not  hesitate  to  affirm,  look 
ing  into  space  as  she  said  it, 

"Takin'  all  things  into  consideration,  I 
can  truly  say  that  I  have  never  been  so 
truly  and  ideely  married  as  since  my  wid 
owhood."  And  she  smiled  as  she  added, 

"Marriage,  the  earthly  way,  is  vicissi- 
tudinous,  for  everybody  knows  that  any 
thing  is  liable  to  happen  to  a  man  at  large. " 
25 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGEAPH 

There  had  been  a  time  when  she  lamented 
that  her  picture  was  not  "life  sized "  as  it 
would  have  seemed  so  much  more  natural, 
but  she  immediately  reflected  that  that  ho 
tel  would  never  have  gotten  into  her  little 
house,  and  that,  after  all,  the  main  thing 
was  having  her  man  under  her  own  roof. 

As  the  months  passed,  Mrs.  Morris,  al 
beit  she  seemed  serene  and  of  peaceful 
mind,  grew  very  white  and  still.  Fire  is 
white  in  its  ultimate  intensity.  The  top, 
spinning  its  fastest,  is  said  to  "  sleep " — 
and  the  dancing  dervish  is  "still."  So, 
misleading  signs  sometimes  mark  the  dan 
ger-line. 

"Under-eating  and  over-thinking"  was 
what  the  doctor  said  while  he  felt  her 
translucent  wrist  and  prescribed  nails  in 
her  drinking-water.  If  he  secretly  knew 
that  kind  nature  was  gently  letting  down 
the  bars  so  that  a  waiting  spirit  might 
easily  pass — well,  he  was  a  doctor,  not  a 
26 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

minister.  His  business  was  with  the  body, 
and  he  ordered  repairs. 

She  was  only  thirty-seven  and  "well" 
when  she  passed  painlessly  out  of  life.  It 
seemed  to  be  simply  a  case  of  going. 

There  were  several  friends  at  her  bed 
side  the  night  she  went  and  to  them  she 
turned,  feeling  the  time  come: 

"I  just  want  to  give  out  that  the  first 
thing  I  intend  to  do  when  I  'm  relieved  is 
to  call  by  there  for  Morris—"  She  lifted 
her  weary  eyes  to  the  picture  as  she  spoke. 
« — for  Morris — and  I  want  it  understood 
that  it  '11  be  a  vacant  house  from  the  min 
ute  I  depart.  So,  if  there  's  any  other 
woman  that  's  calculatin'  to  have  any  car- 
ryin's-on  from  them  windows — why,  she  '11 
be  disappointed — she  or  they.  The  one 
obnoxious  person  I  thought  was  in  it 
wasn't.  My  imagination  was  tempted  of 
Satan  an'  I  was  mislead.  So  it  must  be 
sold  for  just  what  it  is — just  a  photogra 
pher's  photograph.  If  it  's  a  picture  with 
27 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGBAPH 

a  past,  why  everybody  knows  what  that 
past  is  and  will  respect  it.  I  have  tried 
to  conquer  myself  enough  to  bequeath  it 
to  the  young  lady  I  suspicioned,  but  human 
nature  is  frail  an'  I  can't  quite  do  it,  al 
though,  doubtless,  she  would  like  it  as  a 
souvenir.  Maybe  she  'd  find  it  a  little  too 
souvenirish  to  suit  my  wifely  taste,  and 
yet — if  a  person  is  going  to  die — 

"I  suppose  I  might  legate  it  to  her — 
partly  to  recompense  her  for  her  discre 
tion  in  leaving  that  hotel  when  she  did — 
an'  partly  for  undue  suspicion — 

i  i  There  's  a  few  debts  to  be  paid>  but 
there  's  eggs  an'  things  that  '11  pay  them, 
an'  there  's  no  need  to  have  the  hen  settin' 
in  the  window  showcase  any  longer.  It 
was  a  good  advertisement,  but  I  've  often 
thought  it  might  be  embarrassin'  to  her." 
She  was  growing  weaker,  but  she  roused 
herself  to  amend, 

"Better  raffle  that  picture  for  a  dollar 
a  chance  an'  let  the  proceeds  go  to  my 
28 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

funeral— an'  I  want  to  be  buried  in  the 
hotel-fire  general  grave,  commingled  with 
him— an '  what  's  left  over  after  the  debts 
are    paid,    I   bequeath    to    her — to    make 
amends — an'  if  she  don't  care  to  come  for 
it,  let  every  widow  in  town  draw  for  it. 
But  she  '11  come.    Most  any  woman  '11  take 
any  trip,  if  it's   paid  for.     But  look!" 
She  raised  her  eyes  excitedly  toward  the 
mantel,  "Look!    What  's  that  he  's  wav- 
in'?    It  looks— Oh,   yes,    it   is— it 's    our 
wings — two  pairs — mine  a  little   smaller. 
I  s'pose  it  '11  be  the  same  old  story— I  '11 
never  be  able  to  keep  up— to  keep  up  with 
him — an'  I  've  been  so  hap— 
"Yes,  Morris — I  'm  comin' — " 
And  she  was  gone — into  a  peaceful  sleep 
from  which  she  easily  passed  just  before 
dawn. 

When  all  was  well  over,  those  who  had 
sat  with  her  to  the  end  rose  with  one  accord 
and  went  to  the  mantel  where  one  even 
29 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGRAPH 

lighted  an  extra  candle  that  they  might 
more  clearly  scan  the  mysterious  picture. 

Finally,  one  said: 

"You  may  think  I  'm  queer,  but  it  does 
look  different  to  me,  already. " 

"So  it  does,"  said  another,  taking  the 
candle.  "Like  a  house  for  rent.  I  de 
clare,  it  gives  me  the  cold  shivers. ' ' 

"I  '11  pay  my  dollar  gladly,  and  take  a 
chance  for  it,"  whispered  a  third,  "but  I 
would  n't  let  such  a  thing  as  that  enter  my 
happy  home — " 

"Neither  would  I!" 

"Nor  me,  neither.  I  Ve  had  trouble 
enough.  My  first  husband's  oil-painted 
portrait  has  brought  me  discord  enough— 
an'  it  was  a  straight  likeness.  I  don't 
want  any  more  pictures  to  put  in  the  hen 
house." 

So  the  feeling  ran  among  the  mothers 
and  wives. 

"Well,"  said  she  who  was  blowing  out 
the  candle,  "I  '11  draw  for  it — an'  take  it, 
30 


THE  HAUNTED  PHOTOGKAPH 

if  I  win  it,  an'  consider  it  a  sort  of  inher 
itance  which  it  is,  in  a  way,  to  whoever  gets 
it.  I  never  inherited  anything  but  indiges 
tion—  " 

The  last  speaker  was  a  maiden  lady  and 
so  was  she  who  answered  her  chuckling : 

"That  's  what  I  say!  Anything  for  a 
change.  There  'd  be  some  excitement  in  a 
picture  where  a  man  was  liable  to  show  up. 
It  's  more  than  I  've  got  now.  I  '11  risk 
my  happiness  with  a  chance.  I  'm  that 
reckless. 

"I  do  declare,  it  's  just  scandalous  the 
way  we  're  laughin',  an'  the  poor  soul 
hardly  out  o'  hearin'.  She  was  a  kind 
soul,  Mis'  Morris  was,  an'  she  made  her 
self  happy  with  a  mighty  slim  chance— 

"Yes,  she  did,"  said  another,  forcibly 
pulling  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
" — on  a  mighty  slim  chance — and  I  only 
wish  there  'd  been  a  better  man  waitin'  for 
her  in  that  hotel." 


31 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHEE 

SALLY  ANN  SALISBURY  was  a  long 
name  for  a  servant  in  slave  days a 

long  name  for  familiar  use — but  it  was  one 
frequently  called  across  the  back  yard  over 
the  wood  piles  at  Belle  Haven  plantation. 
It  generally  took  about  three  calls  to  elicit 
response  when  there  would  slowly  emerge 
from  the  wash-shed  a  slim  yellow  woman 
who,  languidly  shading  her  eyes  with  one 
hand,  the  other  far  back  upon  her  hip, 
would  answer: 

"Who  datr1 

She  would  answer  thus  even  when,  as 
was  rarely  the  case,  the  voice  was  that  of 
her  young  mistress,  and  then  she  would 
condescendingly  take  an  order  or  even 
agree  to  hurry  a  piece  of  work,  although  in 
this  case  she  would  generally  app'end  a 
35 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

drawling,  "Yas  'm,"  and  even  a  reluctant 
"d'rec'ly,"  as  she  turned  away. 

This  last,  by  a  strange  inversion  of  mean 
ing  evolved  from  the  dilatory  habits  of  the 
time  and  place,  was  understood  to  mean 
" after  a  while,"  anything  but  the  "di 
rectly"  of  the  dictionaries. 

Still,  it  held  a  tacit  promise  to  hurry 
things  a  little  and  in  a  few  moments,  when 
she  had  made  several  deliberate  turns 
about  the  shed  or  perhaps  stopped  to 
gather  and  eat  a  handful  of  figs  from  the 
tree  at  her  doorstep  or  to  conclude  a  con 
versation  with  an  idler  over  the  back  fence, 
she  would  saunter  up  to  the  House,  head  in 
air,  and  generally  with  arms  and  shoulders 
fairly  bewinged  with  fluted  finery  done  to 
the  queen's  taste. 

It  was  hard  to  find  fault  with  one  thus 
labeled  with  delightful  evidences  of  her 
skill  and,  after  all,  the  main  use  of  a  wash 
erwoman  is  that  she  shall  wash  well. 

Sally  Ann,  more  familiarly  known  as 
36 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

Sassie  Salisbury — the  "Sas"  having  been 
playfully  evolved  from  her  initials  by  one 
of  the  young  masters  on  the  place — was 
conceded  to  be  the  "sassiest  gal  along  the 
river, "  long  before  she  married  Salisbury 
and  became  unbearable,  in  consequence. 
She  was  sassiest,  as  well  as  the  cleverest— 
the  most  unreliable.  Mercurial  to  her  fin 
ger-tips  and  gifted  at  whatever  she  put 
them  to  perform,  she  was  at  once  an  asset 
of  utility  and  of  trial.  As  Sally  Ann 
Smith,  she  had  been  an  element  of  discord 
among  the  negroes  for  several  years  during 
which  she  had  tentatively  borne  the  names 
of  one  or  two  of  her  most  ardent  suitors 
for  short  periods  when  she  surprised 
everybody  by  marrying  Steven  Salisbury, 
a  "free  man  of  color, "  twice  her  age  and 
well  to  do.  It  was  said  that  she  first  hoo 
dooed  him  and  then  married  him  with  a 
broomstick,  but  the  last  part  of  this  was 
untrue,  as  the  writer  has  reason  to  know. 
All  the  wives  of  the  place  hated  her,  not 
37 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

only  as  an  abiding  menace  to  their  domes 
tic  happiness  but  because  of  her  lawless 
tongue,  which  was  as  nimble  as  her  morals 
or  her  dancing  feet  or  weightless  fingers. 
If  she  could  "do  up"  a  bit  of  French  lin 
gerie  for  her  young  mistress — do  it  so  ex 
quisitely  that  that  fastidious  young  lady 
was  pleased  to  declare  it  "better  than 
new, ' '  so  could  she  do  over  a  piece  of  plan 
tation  gossip  into  a  confection  of  scandal 
better  than  true,  better,  that  is,  by  way  of 
much  adorning,  ruffled,  fluted  and  gar 
nished  to  a  turn  by  her  ever  nimble  tongue. 
And,  by  the  way,  the  laundering  of  the 
finery  of  her  young  mistress  had  always 
been  Sassie's  favorite  work  and  for  two 
reasons.  First — yes,  it  must  come  first — 
Miss  Geraldine  was  just  exactly  Sassie's 
'size,  her  height,  her  heft  and  measure 
ments,  and — this  is  the  second  reason — and 
she  gave  it  with  a  wink:  The  two  had 
"percizely  de  same  taste  in  dress!"  It 
had  been  convenient  to  be  custodian  of  so 
38 


Sally  Ann  Salisbury 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

much  available  finery.  And  Sassie  really 
took  a  sort  of  servile  pride  in  the  radiant 
beauty  of  the  mistress,  who  led  her  set  so 
cially.  To  an  appreciable  extent  she  felt 
her  to  be  the  product  of  her  own  skill. 

And  then,  she  was  her  model,  her  fash 
ion-plate.  She  had  only  to  look  at  Miss 
Geraldine  to  know,  not  only  what  to  wear 
but  how  to  wear  it — how  to  "  carry  it  off !" 
Sassie  would  twirl  through  the  figures  of 
the  plantation  dances  in  her  mistress's  em 
pire  gowns,  holding  her  slim  body  just  as 
the  fairer  belle  had  done,  and  she  would 
lift  her  little  head,  tilted  for  coquetry,  over 
the  spring  of  a  medici  collar — "  just  for  all 
the  world  like  Miss  Geraldine ' ' — and  gown 
or  collar  would  go  home  fairly  bristling 
with  the  counterfeit  newness  available  only, 
by  adept  fingers. 

Being  as  she  was  more  of  siren  than 
saint,  is  it  any  wonder  that  the  good  wives 
and  sweethearts  hated  her — and  for  shame 
ful  reasons. 

39 


.WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

Everybody  felt  sorry  when  Steve  mar 
ried  her — sorry  for  him.  He  was  an  in 
dustrious  and  amiable  fellow  who  for  years 
had  plied  his  trade  as  plantation  barber 
with  never  an  indication  that  the  main  im 
plement  of  his  trade  was  available  for  war 
fare — a  fine  local  test  of  character.  And 
he  was  a  clever  negro,  too,  as  was  evinced 
by  the  sign  which  swung  to  his  barber-pole 
and  which  read: 

HAIE  STEATENED. 

Indeed,  this  had  come  to  indicate  a  most 
profitable  branch  of  his  business  and,  al 
though  the  locks  from  which  he  more  or 
less  successfully  removed  the  kinks  had  a 
stubborn,  atavistic  way  of  reverting  to  the 
old  habit  after  a  time,  he  certainly  accom 
plished  wonders  in  immediate  results  and 
there  was  but  one  way  to  disprove  his 
claim  that  "continuous  treatment  would 
make  any  hair  as  straight  as  an  Indian 's  " ; 
40 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

and  this  way  cost  money,  money  which  is 
of  all  things  most  scarce  in  plantation  com 
munities. 

And  Steve  was  not  a  charlatan.  He  had 
really  made  a  clever  machine  of  his  own 
device  which  he  had  snappily  named  i  t  The 
Daisy  Stretcher/'  a  simple  contrivance 
which  could  lay  hold  of  sections  of  hair  at 
a  grasp  and  while  its  manipulator  put  his 
full  force  upon  it,  the  trick  was  done  with 
out  pain  or  further  inconvenience  than  was 
unavoidable — with  one's  head  in  a  vise. 

Steve  owned  his  own  shack  and  a  mule 
and  wagon,  and  a  runabout  for  Sunday 
service,  and  his  note  for  as  much  as  fifty 
dollars  was  known  to  be  negotiable  even 
with  the  white  storekeepers  along  the  river. 

The  very  fact  that  he  could  himself  write 
and  sign  a  promissory  note  set  him  upon  a 
pinnacle  so  that  it  is  easily  seen  that  as  a 
matrimonial  parti,  he  stood  high,  even  with 
the  slight  prejudice  which  his  familiar 
name  implied— ' t Six  Toe  Steve."  The 
41 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

fact  of  the  trifling  deformity  therein  indi 
cated  had  as  a  youth  set  him  somewhat 
apart  and  made  him  taciturn. 

We  all  know  how  any  departure  from 
the  normal  is  apt  to  discount  the  attraction 
of  sex.  So  does  nature  preserve  her  in 
tegrity.  And  yet,  when  we  reflect  to  how 
slight  a  degree  human  happiness  is  a  mat 
ter  of  fingers  and  toes,  it  does  seem 
strange  that  one  extra  member  so  trivial 
as  a  little  toe  should  have  prejudiced  the 
young  feminine  mind  against  the  whole 
man,  Steve  Salisbury,  in  toto — and  yet,  so 
it  was,  or  had  been  in  his  callow,  sensitive 
days  when  he  had  tried  to  "circulate  in  so 
ciety.  " 

Even  yet,  although  a  successful  business 
man  and  of  middle  age,  he  was  regarded  as 
a  little  queer  and  detached — almost  abnor 
mal  in  his  imperviousness  to  the  wiles  of 
womankind,  when  he  suddenly  became  en 
tangled  in  the  meshes  of  Sally  Ann's  net; 
and  this  figure  is  selected  with  malice  pre- 
42 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

pense  for  its  literal  as  well  as  figurative 
significance. 

We  all  know  the  type  of  mulattress  with 
a  brush  of  foxy  hair,  kinked  to  the  limit  and 
with  each  strand  seemingly  so  repellent  to 
its  neighbor  that  the  result  is  like  an 
electrified  mop — and  not  always  by  any 
means  unhandsome. 

Such  was  Sally  Ann,  the  siren  of  Silver 
Springs  Baptist  community — she  whose 
head  of  foxy  fluff  she  confined  in  a  crimson 
net,  carrying  it  thus  up  the  Mississippi 
levee  to  the  "Studio  Parlors"  just  off  the 
barber-shop  of  Steven  Salisbury. 

Demurely  taking  her  seat  before  the 
Daisy  Stretcher,  she  deftly  slipped  off  the 
net,  gave  her  head  a  single  quick  shake 
such  as  a  King  Charles  spaniel  gives  his 
locks  on  occasion — and  there  she  was. 

Steve  was  a  stolid  fellow,  or  had  been 

hitherto,  and  he  would  not  have  known  the 

meaning  of  so  high-sounding  a  word  as 

capillary  attraction.     Still,  he  is  not  the 

43 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

first  man  who  has  felt  things  which  he 
could  not  name. 

When  he  had  looked  at  the  unusual  tan 
gle  of  color  before  him,  run  his  profes 
sional  fingers  through  it  and  drawn  it  out 
to  its  full  seven  inches  of  length  and  let  it 
snap  back  into  bewildering  confusion — he 
hesitated. 

Then,  he  worked  at  the  Daisy  Stretcher 
a  while,  independently,  as  a  fiddler  who 
' '  tunes  up ' '  before  he  begins  to  play.  And 
then — presently — having  killed  as  much 
time  as  he  dared — he  drawled,  with  some 
confusion : 

"Seem  like  a  pity — Miss  Sal'  Ann — pity 
to  disturb  it — whilst  de  net — "  he  was  hold 
ing  the  net  in  his  fingers — "whilst  de  net 
becomes  it  so  fine — an'  yo'  head  ain't  like 
mos'  ladies'  heads.  You  mought  subjue 
deze  locks  down,  for  a  time,  but — but— 

Oh,  well!  Why  follow  them  further? 
He  was  caught,  and  that  is  all  there  is  of 
it.  Sally  Ann  had  actually  gone  to  him 
44 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

with  five  dollars — the  price  of  an  entire 
course  of  treatment — in  cash  in  her  hand 
kerchief — and  she  had  taken  pains  to  let 
him  see  the  V  in  its  crinkled  green  corner 
— but  she  took  it  home,  intact.  And  Steve 
had  been  considered  mercenary,  too,  but 
perhaps  he  was  first  of  all  an  artist,  or, 
more  likely,  he  was  just  a  normal  man— 
and  had  been  biding  his  fate. 

Of  course,  Sally  Ann  knew  all  about  the 
little  extra  toes,  but  she  was  not  one  to 
bother  herself  about  trifles.  Steve  owned 
the  best  negro  cabin  along  the  river  now, 
and  his  free-born  parents  before  him  had 
been  property-holders  and  respectable. 

Somehow,  no  one  had  foreseen  their 
marriage,  even  after  they  had  been  for 
some  time  "running  together."  Even 
Steve  himself,  who  had  undoubtedly  lost 
his  bearings  in  the  first  whirlpool  of  the 
romance,  had  not  thought  of  it,  either. 
Whether  the  woman  did  or  not,  it  would  be 
hard  to  say.  Precedent  was  against  it  and 
45 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

it  would  not  have  been  easy  for  her  to  take 
any  particular  stand  in  the  matter — things 
having  been  as  they  had  been. 

A  year  and  more  passed  and  still  the  two 
were  constantly  together — as  constantly  as 
they  could  well  be,  living  thus  apart  and 
both  having  work  to  do. 

Sassie  was  very  capricious  and  of  a  pre 
carious  popularity,  and,  although  Steve 
was  all  devotion,  he  could  not  fully  know 
how  things  were,  precisely,  and  it  was  only 
when  old  Granny  Griggs  took  the  trouble 
to  carry  her  heart  disease,  panting  all  the 
way  from  Sassie 's  bedside,  a  distance  of 
half  a  muddy  mile,  to  Steve's  Studio  Par 
lors  to  announce  the  birth  of  "a  bouncin' 
six-toe  boy!"  that  he  was  suddenly  suf 
fused  with  paternal  certitude  and,  drop 
ping  the  Daisy  Stretcher  upon  the  floor  in 
his  tremulous  joy,  he  hitched  up  his  gig 
and  drove  three  miles  for  the  minister  of 
Silver  Springs  chapel,  carried  him  over  to 
46 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

Sassie's  cabin  and  "made  things  right  for 
the  boy — and  his  mammy. " 

Most  of  life's  values  are  relative,  after 
all.  So  trivial  and  inconsequent  a  baga 
telle  as  a  little  toe  relatively  considered, 
may  become  a  power  compellant,  irresisti 
ble,  as  in  this  case,  changing  the  whole  face 
of  life  for  a  number  of  people. 

In  due  time,  which  is  to  say  in  several 
weeks,  the  bride-mother  and  child  were 
proudly  on  parade  at  all  church  and  social 
functions,  and  generally  accompanied  by 
the  beaming  pater.  For  once  in  her  life, 
Sassie  was  sorry  she  was  a  Baptist,  as  it 
would  have  been  so  fitting  to  have  the  child 
christened  at  the  wedding  supper,  when  he 
was  four  weeks  old,  and  at  which  she  ap 
peared  in  orange  flowers  and  a  veil.  Why 
not,  and  she  for  the  first  time  a  bride? 

Steve  would  have  taken  mother  and  babe 
home  with  him,  of  course,  had  they  been 
free.  As  it  was,  he  stayed  with  them  as 
47 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

much  as  lie  could  and  spent  freely  of  his 
hoard  for  their  adornment,  this  being  the 
direction  of  his  wife's  ambition — and  all 
things  were  happy  and  prosperous. 

When  Sassie  returned  to  her  laundry  du 
ties,  the  Junior  lay  in  affluent  upholstery  in 
a  wicker  perambulator  within  the  honey 
suckle  shade  and  the  song  of  the  tubs  which 
rose  above  the  droning  of  the  bees  was  good 
to  hear,  harmonizing  as  it  did  with  all  the 
small  noises  of  contentment  in  the  vines. 

The  washboard's  rubbing  marked  the 
measure  and  when  there  was  a  lull,  as  when 
the  washer  changed  tubs,  an  infantile  coo 
ing  would  come  from  the  wheeled  cradle- 
cooing  which  developed  into  strenuous 
crowing  with  the  passage  of  time,  when 
the  mother  would  go  over  and  put  the  crow- 
er's  thumb  in  his  mouth,  or  one  of  his  toes, 
"to  stop  the  racket,"  and  he  would  try  to 
swallow  all  six  toes  at  once  and  spit  them 
out  with  salivary  bubbles  of  baby  glee,  to 
the  infinite  joy  of  his  parents,  more  espe- 
48 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

cially  of  his  father  when  he  was  there.  He 
was  especially  weak  about  the  little  feet, 
so  palpably  his  bequest.  This  is  a  case 
where  circumstantial  evidence,  so  often 
fallacious,  would  have  held  in  almost  any 
court.  Still,  who  knows  anything  final 
about  anything?  Six  toes  upon  each  of 
the  feet  of  the  child  of  a  friend  likewise 
endowed  might  be  a  coincidence.  In  cer 
tain  circumstances,  the  occurrence  could 
not  be  otherwise.  But  we  must  believe  in 
something — or  else  go  where  the  unbeliev 
ers  go. 

There  was  considerable  chaffing  on  the 
plantation  on  the  subject  of  Six  Toe  Steve's 
six  toe  boy,  some  declaring  that  Sassie  was 
always  lucky! 

If  with  all  its  primitive  crudeness, 
Steve's  was  a  case  of  true  love — and  it 
seems  to  have  been — it  proved  no  exception 
to  the  rule  against  smooth  running  in  its 
course.  With  so  much  that  was  propi 
tious,  clouds  soon  began  to  gather  in  his 
49 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

matrimonial  sky.  For  one  thing,  Sassie 
was  jealous.  The  Daisy  Stretcher  natu 
rally  brought  its  manipulator  a  steady  cli 
entele  of  women — women  of  the  beauty- 
seeking  type,  a  dangerous  variety.  Very 
few  of  the  men  bothered  about  their  heads. 
Some  there  were,  of  course,  youths  mostly, 
who  denied  themselves  and  their  sweet 
hearts  ginger-pop  and  cove  oysters  to  essay 
the  Cherokee  act,  but  realizing  no  especial 
access  of  popularity  with  the  very  girls  for 
whom  the  stretcher  was  doing  its  best,  they 
generally  soon  lapsed  into  their  luxuries 
and  their  kinks. 

But  the  women  were  "  fairly  going 
crazy ' '  over  it,  even  some  of  the  coal-black 
damsels  paying  their  last  cents  for  the 
three-inch  fringes  which  by  dint  of  crucial 
effort  were  made  to  connect  with  the  long 
braids  of  jute  which  disfigured  their  heads. 

Sassie  " did  n't  mind  Steve's  straighten 
ing  their  wool  for  'em,  ef  they  craved  to 
have  it  straight/7  she  said,  with  a  toss  of 
50 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

her  own  mop,  but  she  failed  to  see  the 
"justice  of  Steve's  bein'  away  all  day,  en- 
joyin'  hisself  wid  a  lot  o>  fool  women  whilst 
she  wore  her  life  away,  nussin'  his  great 
stroppin'  child!" 
And  then,  she  would  conclude : 
"I  nuver  was  no  hearth-cat,  nohow!" 
a  declaration  which  no  one  could  dispute, 
although  it  did  not  seem  to  be  a  reason 
why  she  should  jostle  poor  little  Junior 
nearly  out  of  his  perambulator,  until  he 
desperately  threw  all  his  vocal  powers  into 
the  family  squall. 

This  was  not  so  very  serious  in  itself  as 
it  was  ominous  of  breakers  ahead  in  the 
matrimonial  sea.  And,  of  course,  this  was 
but  one  phase  of  her  discontent,  for  if  Sas- 
sie  had  a  single  invariable  quality,  it  was 
variability— variability  in  all  its'  various 
phases. 

Steve  liked  to  refer  to  his  increased  re 
sponsibilities    of  married   life,   appropri 
ating  the  term  for  its  pleasing  sound,  but 
51 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

as  a  fact,  matrimony  had  added  to  his  nec 
essary  expenses  not  at  all,  the  support  of  his 
family  being  the  business  of  their  owners. 
Still,  he  assumed  responsibilities  and  he 
had  paternal  plans  for  his  boy  so  that  it 
was  well  for  him  to  make  more  money  and 
thus,  in  the  course  of  the  year,  he  opened 
a  "branch  station"  where  he  set  up  an 
other  barber-shop  and  stretcher,  dividing 
his  time  equally  between  the  two.  As  the 
branch  was  more  than  ten  miles  away  and 
the  roads  were  heavy  in  the  winter  season, 
Sassie  was  left  alone  a  good  deal,  danger 
ously  free  with  discontent  already  ferment 
ing  within  her,  and  so  it  was  not  long  be 
fore  she  lapsed  into  a  peevish  slattern  and 
then,  by  natural  rebound,  she  sought  solace 
in  such  passing  sympathy  as  her  cabin  at 
the  turn  of  the  road  afforded. 

As  is  often  the  case  in  similar  circum 
stances  in  life,  Steve  had  no  inkling  of  the 
real    situation.    A    single-minded    fellow 
and  very  busy,  it  never  occurred  to  him  to 
52 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

suspect  complications  at  home.  The  boy 
waxed  in  vigor  and  filial  appeal  as  he  de 
veloped  the  infantile  accomplishments  in 
natural  sequence  and  if  his  mother  was 
sometimes  a  bit  difficult  in  temper,  the 
father  rather  liked  the  zest  of  it.  It 
brought  a  realization  of  the  blissful  fact 
that  he  was  really  a  married  man  and  hav 
ing  to  put  up  with  a  woman's  ways.  What 
does  any  man  care  about  atmospheric  dis 
turbances  while  he  looks  into  the  clear  eyes 
of  the  miniature  of  himself  who  is  climb 
ing  over  his  knees  and  calling  him  daddy ! 
And  then,  Sassie  was  really  too  near  his 
vision  for  him  to  get  much  perspective  upon 
her  conduct.  He  had  taken  her  to  himself, 
as  she  was,  soul  and  body,  poor  trusting 
heart — and  even  if  he  had  seen  the  trifling 
neighbor-husbands  hanging  around  her 
door  while  he  was  away,  he  would  have 
been  slow  to  question  their  being  there. 

As  was  natural  to  one  of  her  inverte 
brate  morality,  as  she  gained  in  power  over 
53 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

her  man,  so  did  she  lose  in  worthiness  and, 
more  particularly,  as  she  grew  more  fa 
miliar  with  the  uses  of  money — its  uses  and 
abuses — not  only  did  she  fall  from  grace 
of  being,  but  her  work  suffered. 

She  no  longer  cared  much  whether  Miss 
Geraldine's  ruffles  were  daintily  fluted  or 
not  or  that  they  were  returned  to  her  ' l  on 
time/'  as  of  yore.  The  baby  and  his  de 
mands  made  excuse  sufficient  for  all  short 
comings  and  more  than  once,  when  she 
pleaded  that  she  had  "  walked  de  flo'  all 
night  wid  Junior,'7  she  had  in  truth  done 
precisely  that  same — with  someone  else 
and  to  the  slow  cake-walk  music  of  the 
fiddle.  Of  course,  there  was  an  element 
of  risk  in  this,  but  it  was  slight,  and  for 
the  reason  that  redress  was  so  easy,  if 
there  was  any  tattling.  Few  of  the  deni 
zens  of  the  quarters  were  sufficiently 
"without  sin"  themselves  to  cast  stones, 
fearing  no  rebound.  Once  there  had  been 
a  report  at  The  House  of  some  liberty  Sas- 
54 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

sie  had  taken  with  the  wash  with  a  result 
so  promiscuously  disastrous  that  discretion 
became  the  better  part  of  valor  and  now 
she  might  have  dared  almost  anything, 
without  dread  of  detection. 

So  things  went  from  bad  to  worse  and  in 
the  course  of  a  winter  there  were  several 
fights  on  the  place — fights  in  the  reports  of 
which  a  free  use  of  razors  was  hinted  at 
in  connection  with  Sassie's  name  and  some 
of  the  renegade  husbands. 

And  yet,  bridging  over  all  things,  there 
was  always  Steve's  devotion,  which,  in 
deed,  seemed  never  to  fail,  and  inversely 
as  he  gained  in  popular  favor,  the  woman 
of  his  life  lost  in  following  until  finally  her 
owners  were  "put  to  it"  to  know  what  to 
do  with  her. 

Her  work  was  no  longer  a  consideration 
and  every  otherwise  she  was  a  disturber 
and  a  menace.  And  out  of  this  dilemma 
it  was  that  a  plan  of  relief  was  evolved. 
The  thing  was  suggested  by  none  other 
55 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHEE 

than  the  fair  Geraldine,  to  whom  her 
father,  driven  desperate  by  fresh  com 
plaints  of  the  woman,  one  morning  ex 
claimed  : 

"I  '11  be  switched  if  I  know  what  to  do 
with  her !  I  could  n't  sell  her — or  give  her 
away !  Nobody  'd  have  her ! ' ' 

To  which  Geraldine  answered. 

' t  What  about  Steve  ?  Why  not  just  turn 
her  over  to  Steve?  He  'd  take  her — and 
thank  you!" 

It  was  a  new  thought  and  it  struck  home. 
The  very  simplicity  of  it  was  bewildering. 
But  for  a  second  only.  Walking  up  to 
his  daughter,  the  old  Judge  held  out  his 
hand. 

"Shake!"  he  exclaimed,  and  then  mov 
ing  off  and  regarding  her,  "Jerry,  you  Ve 
got  a  head  on  you !  You  ought  Ve  been  a 
boy!" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  keep  saying  that 
to  me,  father ! ' '  she  laughed,  "when  there  's 
so  much  masculine  gray  matter  going  to 
56 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

waste  now.  We  women  conserve  what  lit 
tle  sense  we  have,  that  's — " 

"Yes,  yes,  dear!  So  you  do.  Barely 
use  it  lest  you  wear  it  out!  All  but  my 
girl!  That  's  a  master  stroke,  Jerry. 
I  '11  do  it  right  off!  No,  not  right  off, 
either.  Christmas  is  only  a  month  away 
— and  I  '11  wait.  I  declare,  the  thing  is 
great — and  it  gets  better  every  minute! 
It  's  better  than  you  know,  child!  That 
man,  Steve  Salisbury,  is  the  best  nig 
ger  in  the  parish.  Stood  pat  for  us  all 
through  the  crevasse  last  week — and 
brought  in  lots  of  the  best  men  and  kept 
'em  working  all  night.  I  told  him  I  'd  do 
him  a  good  turn,  first  time  I  got  a  chance 
— and  here  it  is ! 

"No,  Jerry,  I  'm  glad  you  're  a  girl.  If 
you  'd  been  a  boy,  you  'd  be  out  throwing 
away  your  great  intellect — carousing— 
and  my  own  master  mind  wouldn't  have 
helped  me  out  of  this  hole  in  a  thousand 
years!  I  should  never  have  known  what 
57 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

to  do  with  that  damn — excuse  me,  daugh 
ter — that  devilish  woman!  I  '11  send  her 
over  to  Steve,  bag  and  baggage,  on  Christ 
mas  Eve,  with  a  deed  of  gift  in  her  ban 
dana—that  's  what  I  '11  do!" 

' ' And  the  boy,  father?" 

The  old  Judge  scratched  his  bald  spot. 

"Yes,  yes.  Certainly,  the  boy,"  he  has 
tened  to  append.  "Of  course,  it  wouldn't 
be  treating  him  white  to  keep  the  boy — 
and  give  him  Sassie.  God  knows  what  he 
sees  in  her — " 

"That  's  his  look-out,  pater,  dear.  I 
often  wonder  what  the  partners  in  the  ma 
ture  romances  about  us  see  or  ever  saw  in 
each  other — and  sometimes  the  outcome  is 
surprising !  That  bow-legged  baby  of  Sas 
sie 's  and  Steve's,  now!  Why,  he  's  a  won 
der  !  Not  two  years  old  yet  and  he  carries 
tunes  and  dances  and  claps  time — " 

"Yes,  and  he  's  got  his  daddy's  toes,  too ! 
All  natural  and  straight  inheritance.  Sas 
sie  was  born  dancing.  Your  mind  is  all 
58 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

right,  dear.  Not  the  least  too  strong  or 
masculine.  You  '11  do !  Come,  kiss  your 
old  father!" 

Well,  the  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  on 
Christmas  Eve  following  this  quick  decis 
ion,  a  wagon-load  of  effervescent  joy  was 
moved  over  from  Belle  Haven  plantation 
to  the  house  of  Steve  Salisbury,  and 
"everything  on  the  place  was  glad,"  if  we 
are  to  believe  the  old  women  who  talked  it 
over  in  the  road.  Even  several  old  roos 
ters  who  had  not  crowed  all  season  were 
seen  lifting  their  combs  as  they  sent  forth 
their  best  bronchial  joy-notes  from  the 
gate-posts  about  which  recreant  husbands 
had  so  recently  gathered,  and  it  is  a  fact 
that  one  or  two  of  the  neighbor-wives  with 
whom  Sassie  had  not  been  on  speaking 
terms,  did  actually  take  the  trouble  to  call 
and  make  their  friendly  adieux,  so  that  the 
departure  was  in  all  ways  most  felicitous 
and  when  there  went  down  the  road  into 
the  sunset  the  contour  of  a  heaped  wagon, 
59 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

topped  by  a  ruffled  sunbonnet  in  outline,  a 
peaceful  calm  settled  upon  the  place  where 
unrest  had  been. 

For  a  time,  things  went  fairly  well  at  the 
Salisbury  cabin.  Sassie  was  pleased  as  a 
child  with  the  novelty  of  everything  and, 
although  herself  somewhat  down  at  the 
heel,  she  was  stylish  and  "fixy"  to  a  de 
gree  and  her  free  taste  which  ran  to  orna 
ment  soon  transformed  Steve's  house  from 
a  bare  man-kept  place  into  an  abode  of 
femininity  in  action,  for  she  changed 
things  around  from  day  to  day  as  caprice 
suggested  and  felt  herself  a  great  lady 
among  the  coast  people. 

And  Steve  was  very  happy — for  a  time. 
The  woman's  touch  and  the  all-pervading 
Boy,  expressed  in  childish  disorder  every 
where,  were  like  wine  on  draught  to  him. 
He  was  in  a  state  of  semi-intoxication  with 
it  all  and,  for  a  while,  he  declared  he  was 
afraid  to  go  to  sleep  lest  he  should  wake  to 
find  it  a  dream. 

60 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

As  business  had  prospered,  Steve  had 
become  somewhat  punctilious  about  his 
dress.  His  shoes  were  always  scrupu 
lously  polished  on  Saturday  nights  and  his 
tubbings  were  as  regular  as  his  Sabbaths, 
but  when  spring  days  gave  way  to  summer 
and  Junior  was  playing  about  the  "Par 
lor"  barefoot,  Steve's  shoes  began  to  pall 
on  him.  He  kept  thinking  what  a  delight 
it  would  be,  when  customers  would  look  at 
the  child,  as  they  constantly  did,  and  say, 
"Fine  child!  Yoze?"  he  could  giggle  and 
answer,  "Look  at  his  foots!"  And  so  did 
really  this  gleeful  experience  come  to  pass 
before  the  month  of  July  had  gone. 

It  was  not  a  conspicuous  thing  to  do. 
Etiquette  is  lax  enough  in  plantation  cir 
cles.  It  was  only  exceptional  for  Steve- 
inconsistent  with  his  style  and  dress  stand 
ards. 

When  Sassie  had  exhausted  the  novelty 
of  her  home,  which  is  to  say  of  her  side  of 
the  house,  the  other  being  given  over  to 
61 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

business,  she  became  restless.  She  had 
cleaned  up — and  polished — and  scattered 
— and  tied  a  good  many  ribbon  bows  on 
the  cheap  bric-a-brac  which  littered  the 
place — and  there  seemed  nothing  further 
to  do.  The  regular  daily  work  of  her 
small  house  was  play  to  her  quick  fac 
ulty.  These  duties  she  turned  off  by 
a  sort  of  magic  so  that  she  seemed  al 
ways  idle.  With  time  thus  heavy  on  her 
hands,  what  more  natural  than  that  she 
should  go  over  and  sit  with  Steve  in  the 
Studio  Parlor,  taking  the  boy  with  her 
when  he  was  not  already  there.  Of  course, 
seeing  it  done,  it  was  not  long  before  her 
capable  hands  itched  to  work  the  stretcher, 
and  then  came  the  bright  idea  of  her  taking 
charge  of  this  part  of  the  business  on  the 
days  when  Steve  was  busy  at  the  Branch. 
The  enterprise  quickened  her  step  and 
started  the  color  in  her  cheek — and  she  de 
clared  that  she  was  never  so  happy  in  her 
life. 

62 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

It  was  a  festive  little  creature  who  pre 
sided  at  the  Daisy  Stretcher  in  those  care 
free  days.  She  had  lost  no  time  after  com 
ing  into  her  husband's  home  in  sampling 
all  of  his  hair  lotions,  and  every  shampoo 
known  to  his  shelf  had  more  and  more  lib 
erated  and  lightened  the  strands  of  her 
red-brown  hair  which  she  wore  quite  free 
excepting  for  the  band  of  gay  ribbon  which 
crossed  her  shapely  pate  with  a  great  bow 
at  either  end,  just  above  her  small  ears. 
Her  slippers  were  generally  as  red  as  her 
turkey  red  gown.  She  liked  red  shoes  as 
children  like  candy.  Especially  she  liked 
them  with  the  occasional  gown  of  contrast 
ing  colors  which  would  "show  them  off." 

Her  coming  thus  into  the  business  was 
successful  from  the  start — that  is,  of 
course,  in  a  business  way — and  Steve  ex 
pressed  himself  much  pleased.  Not  that 
he  ever  found  any  money  in  the  house,  but 
there  were  new  things — and  new  things— 
and  new  things — for  Sassy  was  a  great 
63 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

buyer  and  boasted  that  she  "always  knew 
what  she  wanted,'7  which  was  generally 
what  she  happened  to  see. 

In  her  interest  in  her  share  of  the  busi 
ness,  she  even  forgot  to  be  jealous,  and  the 
fact  is  that  if  Steve's  " patients"  were  gen 
erally  women,  the  reverse  was  true  of  hers. 
It  's  a  poor  rule  that  won't  work  both 
ways! 

It  was  surprising  how  many  of  the  men 
began  to  be  interested  in  their  hair.  Of 
course  Steve  took  exclusive  charge  of  his 
regular  barber-shop.  The  lather  and 
blade  were  not  to  Sassy 's  taste,  even  had 
the  men  wished  her  to  use  them,  which  they 
did  not.  There  are  some  things  better 
done  by  rule  devoid  of  sentiment,  and  shav 
ing  is  one  of  them.  Few  men  would  like  to 
dream  of  having  even  the  most  charming 
of  women  fumbling  over  their  faces  with  a 
razor.  It  would  wake  them  up. 

But  Sassie  looked  well,  her  dress  ranging 
in  color  through  all  the  shades  of  hilarity, 
64 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

as  she  stood  behind  the  "Daisy"  and  turn 
ing  its  crank,  which  she  did  in  a  way  en 
tirely  novel.  She  would  swing  the  entire 
heft  of  her  slender  body,  in  lieu  of 
strength,  upon  it,  hands  and  feet  free, 
keeping  her  delicate  poise  until  the  trick 
was  done.  It  was  really  a  nice  bit  of  gym 
nastics  which  many  of  the  young  men  came 
purposely  to  see,  even  those  who  were  leav 
ing  their  kinks  to  their  kinking.  "Mis' 
Salisbury  sho  is  good  company!"  was  the 
general  verdict  and  even  her  rather  reticent 
husband  was  forced  to  allow,  "Dey  ain't 
nothin'  lonesome  when  Sassie  is  around!" 

That  her  temperament,  in  her  life  with 
its  exposures,  should  have  gotten  her  into 
trouble — well,  how  could  it  have  been  oth 
erwise  I 

One  of  the  most  constant  of  the  frequent 
ers  of  "The  Parlors"  on  her  days  was  a 
splendid  looking  man,  familiarly  known 
along  the  coast  as  "Choctaw  Charley,"  a 
fellow  about,  say,  three-fifths  Indian,  the 
5  65 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHEE 

other  two  parts  pure  Congo — all  negro  as 
to  feature  and  showing  his  preponderance 
of  Indian  blood  only  in  a  majestic  figure 
of  fine  angles,  a  coppery  tinge  under  his 
skin,  and  his  straight  hair,  stiff  as  black 
bristles. 

A  stolid  fellow  he  was,  so  protected 
by  the  wall  of  reticence  which  surrounded 
him  that  it  was  hard  to  know  whether  he 
was  ultimately  good  or  bad.  Since  the 
death,  a  few  years  back,  of  his  handsome 
Indian-negro  mother,  he  had  lived  alone 
in  his  hut  between  levees  on  the  river's 
edge,  where  he  presided  over  a  set  of 
shrimp  nets,  in  season,  and  with  his  gun 
and  skiff,  brought  in  enough  game  and 
drift-wood  to  support  the  simple  life  he 
led.  An  independent,  easy-going  creature 
he  had  been,  nothing  seeming  to  disturb  his 
equanimity  until  he  fell  into  the  snare  of 
Sassie's  red-ruffled  temperament.  A  man 
like  that  is  often  ensnared  by  a  woman  like 
this.  One  day,  Charley  was  sitting  beside 
66 


.WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

her — this  was  when  he  first  began  coming 
— vaguely  wondering  why  she  wore  a  red 
bow  over  one  ear  and  a  blue  one  above  the 
other,  when  he  remarked  that  it  was 
getting  late  and  he  must  go,  to  which  she 
replied : 

' ' Set  still,  man !  I  '11  see  dat  it  don't  git 
no  later ! ' '  And  with  the  words  she  kicked 
her  red  slipper  across  the  room  and 
stopped  the  clock. 

A  woman  Iik6  this  may  be  shocking,  but 
she  is  not  dull.  Still,  even  as  he  sat  under 
her  spell,  the  surface  of  Choctaw  Charley's 
imperturbable  nature  remained  calm.  He 
simply  stayed — and  stayed — sitting  for 
hours  sometimes  upon  the  long  green  sofa 
and  practising  his  reticence  upon  her  while 
Sassie  played  around  him.  He  was  much 
younger  than  Steve — better  looking,  ath 
letic,  strong,  afraid  of  nothing — and  he 
was  always  there,  clean,  sober,  low  of  voice. 

Sassie  was  a  most  indifferent  mother — 
strange  how  often  such  are  endowed  with 
67 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHEE 

the  sacred  gift — and  while  she  dressed 
Junior  flashily,  beat  him  to  "  teach  him 
manners"  and  neglected  him,  she  would 
fight  any  one  who  looked  askance  at  him. 
A  typical  savage  mammal  of  the  human 
species  she  was,  in  fact,  maternal  only  in 
fierce  instinct  of  defense. 

And  so,  when  his  father  proposed  taking 
the  boy  with  him  for  his  days  at  the 
Branch,  she  was  glad  to  have  him  gone  and 
she  would  always  pack  up  an  unconscion 
able  lot  of  indigestible  food  for  "his 
lunch, "  to  be  eaten  at  odd  hours  during  his 
absence.  She  liked  rich  food,  herself,  and 
the  home  table  which  she  seemed  to  keep 
going  by  a  sort  of  sleight  of  hand,  fairly 
reeked  with  cloying  sweets  and  pastries. 

Eeckless  in  her  hospitality,  she  was  one 
of  those  women  whose  lure  lies  largely  in 
unreckoning  generosity.  She  often  said 
that  she  didn't  enjoy  anything  that  she 
could  n't  share,  and  she  would  not  hesitate, 
if  he  pleased  her  fancy,  to  invite  to  her 
68 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

larder  a  man  who  had  come  for  a  "ten-cent 
stretch"  (her  lowest  fee),  and  send  him 
home  with  fifty  cents  worth  of  "gilt  edged 
victuals"  inside  his  waistcoat — and  she 
would  feel  that  she  was  making  money,  at 
that. 

Of  course,  the  ten-cent  service  at  the 
Daisy  was  slight  and  there  were  occasional 
dissatisfactions  as  when  on  one  occasion,  a 
"patient"  complained,  with  embarrass 
ment: 

"I  hates  to  say  it,  Mis'  Salisbury,  but 
de  las'  time  you  gi'e  me  a  stretch,  I  paid 
you  a  good  dime  an'  befo'  I  got  home,  ev 
erything  had  relapsed  back  ag'in." 

"A  dime,  you  say?"  roared  Sassie. 
"How  long  you  reckon  a  dime  would  feed 
me  befo'  I  'd  git  hongry  ag'in!"  A  re 
joinder  which  passed  for  fine  repartee  and 
silenced  the  complainant  with  a  chorus  of 
mirth. 

Junior  was  nearly  six  years  old  when  a 
second   child  was  born,   a   daughter   this 
69 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

time,  and  the  hard-worked  husband  who 
had  lapsed  into  the  humdrum  of  life,  expe 
rienced  a  rejuvenation  of  sentiment  in  the 
new  set  of  emotions  awakened.  A  pretty 
little  thing,  she  was,  really  quite  exquisite 
in  her  diminutive  perfections.  Steve  had 
somehow  thought  of  the  coming  child  as 
another  boy,  vainly  threatening  to  "put 
Junior's  nose  out  of  joint, "  and  so  he  had 
not  at  all  foreseen  how  it  would  be.  If 
any  one  had  told  him  that  a  little  thing, 
no  bigger  than  a  wax  doll,  could  lay  a  wee 
hand  over  his  sleeve  and  cast  such  a  spell 
upon  him  that  he  would  sit  for  hours, 
just  watching  it  sleep  and  make  faces  — 
that  through  the  nebulous  power  of  this  lit 
tle  thing,  he  would  be  so  revived  in  con 
jugal  tenderness  as  not  only  to  relent  in 
his  recent  strictures  as  to  the  squandering 
of  money  but  would  actually  himself  go 
out  and  recklessly  buy  great  piles  of  red 
embroidery  and  lace  and  fringe,  "just  to 
have  in  the  house  for  his  '  pretty  things/  " 
70 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

before  the  daughter  was  two  days  old  — 
if  any  one  had  foretold  such  "  softy  be 
havior,  "  he  would  not  have  believed  it. 

So  rapt  was  he  in  his  hovering  devotion 
to  the  babe  that  he  did  not,  for  a  long  time, 
realize  the  mother's  impatience  of  his  con 
tinual  presence  in  the  house.  And  even 
when  she  finally  complained  between  pout 
ing  and  laughter  that  she  ' '  always  did  hate 
a  Miss  Nancy-of-a-man,  hanging  round  the 
house  forever,"  he  only  laughed  and  said, 
"Dat  's  de  truth.  Dey  ain't  no  money  in 
dis  business.  I  mus'  be  up  an'  gittin'— 
an '  rake  in  money  for  my  growin '  f am  'ly ! ' ' 

And  so  things  soon  fell  again  into  the  old 
routine  which  was  very  little  changed  by 
the  coming  of  another  child.  When  Sas- 
sie  went  back  to  her  duties  at  the  stretcher 
— she  would  go,  in  spite  of  Steve's  remon 
strance — Choctaw  Charley  was  in  evidence 
as  before  and  no  one  seemed  to  pay  much 
attention  to  them.  It  was  he  who  pushed 
the  old  perambulator  all  redone  in  pink 
71 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

and  white  into  the  " studio  parlor,"  with 
the  new  baby  when  she  stirred;  it  was 
he  who  ran  to  see  whether  she  were  open 
ing  or  closing  her  eyes.  He  it  was  who 
lifted  her  out  and  held  her  in  the  palm  of 
his  hand  aloft  and  showed  her  the  moon 
through  the  open  window;  he  who,  as  she 
grew  older,  threw  her  up  to  the  ceiling  and 
caught  her  every  time ;  he  who  took  things 
from  her  left  hand  and  placed  them  in  the 
right — and  it  was  to  him  that  she  first  held 
out  her  baby  arms. 

She  liked  the  "daddy-man,"  too,  and 
would  let  him  hold  her  on  his  knee — but 
then  Charley  was  never  around  at  these 
times  and  daddy-man  did  very  well  for 
second  best.  And  the  ' l  second  best ' '  knew 
that  as  between  him  and  the  mother,  he 
was  first,  unless  she  were  ill — or  hungry — 
and  it  gave  zest  to  his  already  perfect  joy 
in  her. 

She  was  a  witching  little  thing  of  nearly 
three,  standing  in  Charley's  lap  as  he  sat 
72 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

in  the  "  studio  "  window,  one  day,  when 
Steve  came  upon  them  unexpectedly.  Her 
little  head,  turned  coyly,  lay  against  that 
of  the  man  and  as  she  turned  quickly, 
recognizing  his  footsteps  as  he  approached 
from  behind,  Steve  got  a  swift  picture  of 
the  two  profiles,  one  against  the  other. 
It  was  only  a  flash  but  the  revelation  was 
vivid — and  final.  In  this  brief  present 
ment,  he  clearly  saw  what  only  love-blind 
ness  had  hitherto  denied  him. 

Involuntarily,  he  put  his  hand  before  his 
eyes— and  he  staggered  so  that  he  would 
have  fallen  but  for  Charley  who  led  him  to 
a  chair.  Then  he  and  Sassie,  seeing  him  ill, 
together  laid  him  at  length  upon  the  green 
sofa  and  Sassie  hysterically  drenched 
him  with  cold  water  and  called  upon  God 
to  "have  mercy  upon  her."  And  pres 
ently  the  man  opened  his  eyes  and  said  he 
was  better  and  wanted  to  be  still.  "Would 
they  leave  him  alone  for  a  little  while?" 

How  often  had  he  teased  his  wife  about 
73 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

her  unconsciously  straightening  her  own 
child's  hair  by  prenatal  thought — and  the 
impression  of  "seeing  it  done  every  day" 
and  even  doing  it  herself!  And  the 
woman  had  laughed  and  told  of  how  this 
or  that  neighbor  had  "marked  a  child" — 
by  fright  or  insistent  thought. 

It  was  not  only  the  straight  Indian  hair, 
or  the  coppery  tinge,  so  effective  in  the 
baby  cheek.  It  was  not  this  feature — or 
that.  It  was  the  repeated  Choctaw  type — 
this  and  more.  The  small  face  was  in  its 
entirety,  a  replica  of  the  other. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  said.  He  had 
been  living  in  a  fooPs  paradise  and  an 
angel  with  a  flaming  sword  had  cast  him 
out — and  the  door  was  forever  closed. 

He  was  pretty  still  about  the  house  all 
that  evening,  only  hovering  about  his  boy 
— and  silently  looking  from  one  face  to 
another  of  the  three  who  breathed  with  him 
in  the  room. 

He  rose  early  next  morning,  before  sun- 
74 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

rise,  and  started  forth — to  the  cabin  among 
the  wood-piles  on  the  river. 

Choctaw  Charley  was  up  before  him 
and  sat  on  the  levee,  examining  his  nets. 

There  was  a  gleam  of  sudden  terror  in 
the  Indian's  steady  eyes  when  first  he  saw 
the  man — and  he  rose  to  his  height.  Then, 
perceiving  the  calm  face  of  his  early  guest, 
he  put  forth  his  hand,  which  Steve  affected 
not  to  see.  Looking  the  Indian  evenly  in 
the  eyes  for  a  full  minute,  he  drawled: 

"How  much '11  you  pay  me  for  her, 
Charley!" 

A  grunt  was  the  only  reply.  A  short, 
ugly  "Huh!" 

And  Steve  spoke  again: 

"I  done  asked  you  a  question,  Choc- 
taw  Charley.  I  say  what  '11  you  gimme 
for  her?" 

"You  gwine  sell  yo'  wife,  Steve!" 

"NO,"  the  man  thundered,  "I  gwine  git 
my  divo'cemint  papers  out  'n  de  co't- 
house — an'  den  I  gwine  sell  my  slave!" 
75 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

And  he  lowered  his  eyes  and  took  in  the 
Indian's  face. 

i  '  How  much  you  want  for  her? "  Char 
ley's  eyes  flinched  as  he  put  the  question. 

"What  you  got?"  The  retort  was  im 
mediate  and  it  cut  like  a  knife. 

1  i What  I  got!  I  got— I  got— I  got— I 
got  a  few — " 

4  *  Never  mind  about  de  few — tell  me 
what  you  got,  I  say." 

"I  got  my  skift — an'  my  gun — an'  dis 
fishin'  truck — an'  my  watch — an'  deze  is 
my  wood-piles,  an — " 

"How  much  you  got  in  money?" 

The  red  man  hesitated. 

"Talk,  Charley.  It's  gittin'  late. 
How  much  money  you  got?" 

"I  got  three  hundred  an'  ninety  odd 
dollars." 

"Is  dat  all?" 

"Yas,  dat 's  all,"  and  the  eyes  he  lifted 
were  clear.  It  was  all. 

"Well,"  said  Steve.  "I'll  take  it." 
76 


"How  much  '11  you  pay  me  for  her,  Charley?" 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

His  voice  was  steady  and  controlled.     He 
might  have  been  dickering  for  a  horse. 

"Yas,"  he  repeated,  in  a  moment. 
"I  '11  take  it — I  '11  take  de  money,  but  you 
can  keep  yo'  things.  You  '11  need  'em. 

"An'  now,  don't  you  dast  to  show  yo' 
face  on  de  plantation  tel  you  hear  Pom 
me.  I'll  give  it  out  dat  you  's  sick — an 
you  is  sick!  You  hear  me?  YOU  IS 
SICK!" 

"Yas,  I  hear.    I  is  sick." 

"Well,  dat  's  fixed.  I  'm  gwine  straight 
up  to  de  co't-house  f 'om  heah,  an'  ef  I  git 
my  papers  to-day,  you  '11  heah  f 'om  me 
some  time  to-night.  Ef  not,  to-morrow— 
or  nex'  day — or  nex'  day — or  nex' 
day — but  tel  you  see  me  heah,  please 
ricollec'  you 's  laid  up!  You  onder- 
stand?" 

"Yas,  I  onderstand." 

"An'  nobody  f 'om  my  house  '11  trouble 
you  tel  I  sesso.    Have  de  money  counted 
out  for  me — an'  when  it  's  paid  in,  you 
77 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHEE 

kin  call  'round  an'  git  yo'  prop'ty.    An' 
dat's  all." 

"Dat's  all?"  repeated  the  Indian,  but 
lie  spoke  with  a  rising  inflection  noting 
which,  the  husband  turned  back. 

" What  mo'?"  he  asked. 

For  answer,  the  Indian  only  lifted  his 
hand,  measuring  from  the  ground  the 
height  of  a  little  child,  and  his  eyes  were 
full  of  sorrow. 

"We  each  keeps  our  own."  Steve's 
voice  was  softer  as  he  answered.  "De 
law  would  give  her  to  me.  I  owns  de 
mother  an'  de  law  'titles  me  to  her  in 
crease.  But  I  can't  handle  sech  as  dat. 
Hit  's  too  little — an'  too  big.  I  'd  ruther 
let  it  slip  through  my  fingers.  I  'm  sel- 
lin'  you  de  mammy — an'  I  '11  give  de  chile 
her  freedom. 

"An'  ricollec',  Choctaw  Charley — you  's 
sick,  an'  I  's  yo'  medicine-man — an'  my 
perscription  for  you  is  to  stay  heah  tel 
you  Jieah  f'om  me,  you  Jieah?" 
78 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

And  slowly  withdrawing  his  eyes,  the 
aggrieved  man  turned  away. 

It  was  the  third  night  after  this,  about 
sundown,  when  Steve  reappeared  at  the 
river  cabin.  He  found  Charley  standing 
bare-headed  on  the  bank — waiting  for  him 
—stolid,  quiet,  patient.  As  the  evening 
sun  shone  on  his  head,  Steve  seemed  to 
see  a  diminutive  counterpart  of  it  beside 
it  against  the  sky — and  it  did  not  make  his 
task  easy.  Still,  his  voice  gave  no  sign 
of  shock  as  he  said,  when  he  had  come  up 
to  the  man: 

"Well — everything  is  settled — an' 
done." 

The  Indian  turned  his  slow  eyes,  in 
quiringly. 

"De  divo 'ce-paper — a 'ready?"  he  said. 

"No.  I  didn't  have  to  git  no  divo 'ce- 
paper.  De  Jedge  say  dat  yaller,  bow- 
legged  Baptis'  preacher  dat  married  us,  he 
didn't  register  it  down  on  de  books — an' 
79 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

he  war  n't  no  regular  ardainded  preacher, 
nohow — an'  so  he  say  de  marriage  is  an- 
nulded  an'  avoided — an'  now  it  's  dis 
solved  by  its  own  acid.  An'  dat  leaves  us 
free." 

"So  she  nuver  is  blonged  to  you,  by 
rights!" 

"She  blonged  to  me  by  matrimony,  but 
not  by  ceremony,  he  say,  an'  he  say  dat 
matrimony  widout  legal  ceremony  won't 
stan'  befo'  de  law." 

"Den  what  is  you  sellin'  me?"  There 
was  a  mean  look  in  the  Indian's  face  for 
just  a  minute,  as  he  put  the  question. 

Steve  bent  and  looked  him  in  the  eye. 

"I  tol'  you  de  yether  day  what  I  was 
sellin'  you,  Choctaw  Charley."  His 
voice  was  like  steel  now.  "I  'm  a-sellin' 
you  my  slave.  Leastways,  dat  was  what 
I  started  out  to  do.  But  I  can't  do  it, 
man.  I  done  changed  my  mind.  De  boy, 
he  likes  her.  He  likes  her  even  wid  me 
— an'  ef  he  's  sick,  he  likes  her  above  me 
80 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

— an'  she  's  his  mammy.  I  can't  sell  my 
boy's  mammy.  But  I  tell  you  what  I  '11 
do ;  I  '11  pass  'er  along  to  you  de  way  she 
was  passed  to  me.  Ole  Jedge  Hunger- 
ford  deeded  'er  to  me  for  a  Christmas- 
gif ' — an'  I  '11  do  de  same  by  you.  Dat  is 
I  '11  give  her  to  you  for  a  gif ',  an'  you  kin 
date  it  to  suit  yo'self.  Good  Friday  is 
de  nex'  holiday,  but — nemmine  about  dat, 


an'—" 


1 1 


An'    I    cert'n'y    is    thankful    to— 
Charley  began,  but  Steve  shut  him  off. 

'  '  Wait,  man, ' '  he  interposed.  i '  Don 't  be 
thankful  too  quick.  I  'm  a-comin'  to  dat 
three  hundred  an '  odd  dollars.  I  won 't  sell 
de  woman,  but  de  price  of  de  chile  is  per- 
zac  'ly  whatever  money  you  got.  You  see  ? ' ' 

"Yas,Isee." 

"Go,  git  it!"  Steve  blurted,  with  an 
abrupt  motion  with  his  thumb  toward  the 
cabin. 

Obediently,    the    Indian    went    in    and 
brought  a  long  stocking,  filled. 
6  81 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

" Count  it." 

But  as  the  man  began  to  empty  the 
coins  upon  the  ground — coins  and  little 
bundles  of  green  paper — Steve  stopped 
him. 

"Dat'll  do,"  he  said;  "How  much  is 
dey?" 

"Three  hundred  an'  ninety-nine  dollars 
an'  forty-five  cents." 

"Make  it  fo'  hundred,"  said  Steve. 

"How?"  He  threw  up  two  empty 
hands. 

"Fetch  de  change  when  you  comes  for 
de  goods — an'  now,  put  de  money  in  my 
saddle-bag,  yonder,"  and  while  the  Indian 
obeyed,  he  followed,  preparing  to  mount. 

When  the  money  was  safely  bestowed, 
Steve  handed  over  to  the  Indian  the  deed 
of  conveyance  of  woman  and  child  and 
rose  into  the  saddle. 

"Now,  you  ain't  seen  her  for  three  days, 
Charlie,"  he  said,  as  he  took  the  reins, 


an'—" 


82 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

"How  you  know?"  glared  the  man. 

"I  know,  caze  I  know.  I  fixed  it  so  I  'd 
be  sho',  befo'  I  lef  home.  I  told  'er  I 
had  passed  by  yo'  cabin  an'  dat  you  was 
sick,  an'  threatenin'  to  break  out — but  I 
wasn't  sho'  ef  it  was  de  small-pox!  No, 
you  ain't  seen  her,  not  her!  I  don't  like 
to  lie,  mo  'n  I  have  to.  I  did  n  't  say  posi 
tive  dat  you  had  de  small-pox.  I  didn't 
need  to. 

"An'  I  ain't  nuver  mentioned  none  o' 
dis  business  to  her.  She  don't  know  no 
mo  'n  what  she  mought  o '  guessed  dat  day, 
when  hell  opened  to  me — an'  she  's  a  poor 
guesser. 

"An'  now,  you  can  come  for  her — an' 
de  chile — on  Saturday,  not  befo'.  An' 
when  you  come,  you  kin  tell  'er  de  news 
an'  show  'er  de  paper.  I  ain'  gwine 
broach  it  to  'er.  I  gwine  migrate — me  an' 
my  son — an'  by  Saturday  about  sundown, 
we'll  be  far  f'om  heah.  Dis  place  don't 
suit  me,  nohow.  Dey  ain't  money  enough 
83 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

in  it.  I  gwine  whar  dey  's  dollars  in  cir 
culation,  stid  o'  dimes — an'  work  de  Daisy 
whar  she  '11  make  us  rich, — an'  I  reckon 
dat  's  all  I  got  to  say.  Clk!  Clk!" 

This  last  to  the  horse  started  him  home 
ward.  There  were  no  further  words  be 
tween  the  men — no  comments — no  recrim 
inations — no  adieux. 

The  affair  was  closed. 

From  here,  Steve  soon  turned  his  horse 
toward  the  Branch  road.    He  would  not 
go  back  home.    It  was  easier  to  stay  away. 
•        ••••••• 

In  the  early  forenoon  of  the  next  day, 
while  he  was  busying  himself  in  quiet 
preparations  for  departure,  putting  his 
things  away,  a  messenger  came  for  him— 
a  messenger  who  would  have  been  pale 
had  he  not  been  so  brown.  As  it  was, 
Steve  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  was  a  trag 
edy-bearer, — saw  it  by  the  ashen  hue  of  his 
lips,  saw  it  before  his  words  gave  him  the 
lie,  as  he  said : 

84 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

"Better  come  home,  Steve.  Mis'  Salis 
bury  ain't  so  well." 

"Who  killed  'erf"  The  story  of  death 
was  written  all  over  the  man 's  face. 

"I  don't  know,  sir.  Dey  foun'  'er  daid. 
De  doctor,  he  say  she  been  daid  all  night. " 

"Where!" 

"In  her  house.  In  yo'  house.  In  her 
bed." 

' 'An'  de  boy ?    De  chillen  1 ' ' 

"Dey  all  right.    De  boy  '11  tell  you." 

And  so  did  he,  straight  and  without  a 
falter. 

It  seems  that  the  little  girl  had  climbed 
and  was  curiously  handling  the  things  on 
Steve's  shelf,  in  the  barber-shop,  when  she 
opened  a  box  of  razors  and  her  mother, 
instead  of  getting  them  from  her  tactfully, 
tried  to  force  them  and  in  the  struggle, 
one  of  the  blades  swept  across  the 
woman's  wrist,  severing  an  artery. 

"Blood  spurted  so  high,  in  jumps," 
85 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

said  the  boy,  "an'  mammy  fainted  dead 
away,  same  as  when  she  gets  happy  in 
church — an'  when  she  come  to,  she  tried 
to  get  up — an'  she  tried  to  get  up — an' 
she  tried  to  get  up — an'  'en  she  went  to 
sleep.  An'  'en  we-all,  we  went  to  sleep — 
an'  dis  mornin',  she  wouldn't  wake  up — 
an'  she  wouldn't  wake  up." 

Such  was  the  pitiful  story.  Sally  Ann 
had  always  swooned  at  the  sight  of  blood 
— and  the  rest  is  easy  to  follow. 

The  news  spread  fast  enough.  It  was 
about  noon  when  Choctaw  Charley  came 
in.  Of  course,  he  had  heard  every  yer- 
sion  of  the  tragedy  on  the  way. 

The  little  body,  dressed  for  burial,  lay, 
a  tranquil  form  in  yellow  wax,  upon  the 
green  sofa. 

As  Charley  stood,  looking  down  upon  it, 
his  head  low  upon  his  bosom,  Steve  came 
and  stood  beside  him.  Neither  spoke. 
Then,  presently,  the  children  came.  The 
wee  girl  in  scarlet  twisted  one  hand 
86 


.WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

through  Charley's  and  the  other  she  lay 
against  Steve's  knee — and  the  boy  pressed 
his  cheek  against  his  father's  arm  and  his 
lip  quivered. 

After  a  while,  Steve  said  to  the  man 
beside  him: 

" Maybe  it  's  all  for  de  best,  Charley." 

But  Choctaw  Charley,  Charley,  of  the 
stolid  mind,  could  not  answer.  His  face 
was  set.  And  when  presently  a  single 
great  tear  rolled  down  his  face,  he  threw 
it  away  roughly  with  his  empty  hand. 

1 ' Come  into  the  other  room,"  said 
Steve,  after  a  while,  and  when  they  were 
there,  "Charley,"  he  said,  "dat  money — 
I  don't  want  it.  I  'lowed  to  save  it  for 
de  little  gal.  I  knowed  her  mammy 
couldn't  nuver  exac'ly  save  money — not 
sayin'  no  thin'  ag'in'  'er — but  it 's  for  you, 
now,  an'  for  her." 

Still  Charlie  was  dumb.  He  could  not 
talk — yet.  He  might  have  been  of  stone. 

But  next  day,  when  the  funeral  was  over, 
87 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

the  two  men  walked  home  together.  Then, 
while  they  sat  in  the  front  room— not  the 
"Studio  Parlor "  but  the  other — her  parlor 
on  the  other  side — a  little  room  still  pal 
pitant  with  the  spirit  of  its  vanished  mis 
tress,  and  while  the  children  laughed  to 
gether  beside  them,  it  was  Charley  who 
said: 

1 1  Seem  like  a  pity  to  part  'em.  Nobody 
knows  no  thin'  but  you  an'  me." 

Steve  shot  a  quick  glance  at  the  man. 

"An'  would  you  be  willin' — " 

"Keep  dat  money,  Steve — an'  do  for 
'er — an'  I  '11  come  up  wid  more  as  she 
needs  it.  You  kin  do  mo '  for  'er  'n  I  kin. 
You  got  people — an'  I  ain't.  An'  she 
won't  nuver  know — an'  I  '11  come — or 
whar  you  go,  I  '11  be  close  behind.  You 
know,  she  loves  me  the  best — an'  you  won't 
min'  dat — jes'  lemme  keep  up  wid  'er  a 
little,  an'—" 

While  they  were  talking  along,  so,  the 
children  who  were  eating  their  corn-bread 
88 


"  Seem  like  a  pity  to  part  'ein" 


WHENCE  AND  WHITHER 

and  molasses,  under  the  lamp,  started  to 
ask  questions.    It  was  Junior  who  began  it. 

"Jes  look  at  all  de  big  moths,  daddy— 
fallin'  into  de  lamp.  Who  made  de  moths, 
daddy V 

"Dod!"  put  in  the  wee  girl.  "Dod 
maked  everyfing.  Mammy  said  so." 

"An'  when  dey  drops  in  de  candle,  whar 
does  dey  go  den?"  pursued  the  boy. 

"Back  to  God,  baby." 

"Back  to  Dod?  Everyfing  back  to 
Dod?"  And  Junior,  his  eyes  alight, 
added,  "Ole  hoppy-toad  frogs — an'  pritty 
butterflies— all  back  to  God?" 

"An'  red  mammies — all  back — ?" 

"Yas,  chillen." 

"I  'm  sheepy,"  said  the  little  red-winged 
moth,  "wusht  I  could  go  back  to-night — to 
Dod — an'  mammy." 


89 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY! 

I  HAD  been  writing  Joshua's  love  let 
ters  for  him  all  winter,  and,  after  the 
first  two  or  three,  in  the  construction  of 
which  I  had  dutifully  consulted  him,  it 
seemed  better  simply  to  take  the  temper 
of  the  fellow's  mood  and  to  let  it  color  ef 
fusions  which  were  entirely  my  own  in 
form. 

If  he  seemed  timorous,  .gray  was  the  hue 
of  my  plaint.  A  jubilant  spirit  flowered 
my  pages  with  couleur  de  rose  when  he  was 
fond  and  sure ;  while,  in  a  situation  which 
warranted  so  reckless  declaration  as  "love 
by  po 'try- verse,"  as  he  expressed  it,  I  fell 
easily  into  rime,  made  to  the  need  or 
frankly  borrowed — to  his  unfailing  de 
light. 

It  is  well  understood  among  my  negroes 
93 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

that  I  am  pleased  to  act  as  amanuensis 
when  I  can.  As  my  professional  duties 
claim  much  of  my  time,  I  rather  welcome 
this  confidential  service  which  brings  me 
into  personal  acquaintance  with  them,  so 
that  when  questions  are  referred  to  me, 
as  master  of  the  place,  I  may  arbitrate 
wisely,  knowing  my  material — whether  the 
well-springs  be  sweet  or  bitter. 

The  negro  is  peculiarly  sensitive  to  the 
effect  of  high-sounding  language  far  be 
yond  his  ken,  following  flowery  lines  above 
his  own  head  with  keen  delight — and  a  gen 
eral  if  not  full  understanding. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  Joshua 
came  to  me  with  his  request.  Thinking  to 
write  strictly  by  his  dictation,  I  said,  as  I 
reached  for  my  pen : 

'  <  Well,  Josh,  I  'm  ready.  What  shall  I 
say!" 

Instead  of  answering,  the  boy  began  to 
squirm  and  to  giggle  and  it  was  some  time 
before  I  could  get  a  coherent  utterance 
94 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

from  Mm;  but  finally,  after  a  number  of 
e  jaeulatory  spurts,  such  as  ' '  De  idee !  An ' 
you  a  educated  ge'man  o'  speunce — He, 
he,  he!"  he  turned  to  me  with: 

"G'way,  Marse  Horace— g' way!  You 
axin  me  what  to  write — he,  he!— Ef  I 
knowed  college  words,  you  reckon  I  'd  come 
to  you?" 

And  so  it  was  that,  after  some  parley  on 
the  subject,  I  said,  dipping  my  pen : 

"I  believe  you  said  her  name  was  Juney 
— so,  shall  I  begin  with  'My  dear  Juney  I '  " 

This  sobered  him.    He  stopped  giggling: 

' '  No,  Sir !    Not  yit !    Not  on  paper !  > ' 

' '  Not  on  paper  ?  Then  how  shall  I  make 
a  letter  of  it?" 

' '  Now,  Marse  Horace !  You  knows  what 
I  means !  De  paper  >s  all  right,  but  look 
out  what  you  puts  on  it !  Don't,  for  Gord 
sake,  say  <my  dear'!  De  gal  ain't  signi 
fied  her  consents,  yit!  Mo  'n  dat,  I  ain't 
approached  de  neighborhoods  o'  manage— 
not  yit ! 

95 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

"Dis  heah  letter  ain't  no  mo  'n  a  sort  o' 
he-bird  chirp,  me  settin'  on  my  limb  an'  she 
on  hern,  in  de  love-vine.  Ef — ef  I  was  to 
say  'my  dear'  now,  what  would  be  lef  to 
me  to  sing  time  we  starts  to  build  de 
nest?" 

The  boy's  sentiment  surprised  and 
pleased  me. 

' '  Quite  right  you  are, ' '  I  replied.  ' '  Quite 
right !  Then  what  shall  I  say  1  If  not '  my 
dear,'  I  suppose  it  shall  be  just '  Juney'  or 
'Miss  Juney '!" 

"She  name  'Miss  Little  John.'  "  The 
amendment  was  serious.  "What  's  de 
matter  wid  'Dear  Miss  Littlejohn,'  for  a 
letter  I  Sech  as  'Dear  Juney,'  I  keeps  for 
speech!" 

"Keep  that  for  speech,  do  you?"  I 
laughed.  "I  hardly  think  you  need  my 
help,  Joshua." 

"Yas,  Sir,  I  does!  I  sho  does!  I  needs 
it  severe!  When  I  say  I  keeps  it  for 
speech,  I  means  for  future  speech.  I  ain  't 
96 


No,  sir  !  Not  yit !  Not  ou  paper  !' 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

nuver  is  said  no  sech  to  her  yit.     I  don't 
nuver  see  'er  on'y  but  jes'  Sundays.    But 
every  Sunday  of  Gord's  world  I  walks  dem 
'leven  deep  miles,  all  charged  with  lan 
guage—den  de  first  sight  of  'er,  seem  like 
hit  all  but  strikes  me  dumb.    I  been  gwine 
up  to  Three  Forks  now  for  purty  nigh  fo'- 
teen  Sundays,  I  reckon,  ef  dey  was  counted, 
an'  I  ain't  nuver  is  done  nuthin'  but  set 
down  beside   'er  an'  mop  my  forehead— 
an',  of  co 'se,  present  'er  wid  de  gum-drops 
or  rock-candy  I  fetches  'er— an'  seem  like 
she  's  purty  much  de  same  way.     She  '11 
talk  right  along,  jes  as  long  as  anybody 
else  is  in  de  room— but— but  quick  as  we  's 
lef '  by  ourselfs,  we  bofe  falls  back  on  rock- 
candy  an'  gum-drops — an'  sweet-gum,  of 
co'se.    An'  den,  de  fus'  thing  I  knows,  de 
'larm  clock  strikes— an'  I  has  to  strike  out 
for  home." 

"And  who  sets  the  alarm?"  I  asked, 
amusement  in  my  voice,  in  spite  of  me. 

"We  does— she  or  me,  air  one.    We  has 
97 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

to  reg'late  ourselves  by  it.  Hit 's  de 
on'iest  way  I  kin  be  sho  o'  gittin'  home 
befo'  day. 

"I  don'  know  how  it  is,  but  seem  like 
settin'  beside  a  gal  an'  chewin'  gum  is 
slow  work  an'  yit  dey  ain't  no  thin'  dat  '11 
mek  time  fly  lak  it  do.  Seem  like  quick  as 
we  starts  in,  de  clocks  gits  excited  an' 
rushes  us  along  into  a  sort  o'  Paradise- 
gyarden  whar  we  loses  our  way.  Oh,  yas, 
Sir — we  sho  needs  de  'larm-clock.  Most  o' 
de  plantation  house-co'tin'  is  reg-lated  by 
'larm-clocks.  Hit  lets  you  take  comfort 
wid  a  gal,  a  'larm  clock  do." 

"Then,  shall  I  begin  with  'Miss  Little- 
john'?"  I  interrupted. 

"Dey  ain't  no  harm  in  'Dear  Miss  Lit- 
tlejohn,'  is  dey?  Dat  's  on'y  manners  in 
writin',  so  dey  tell  me.  Even  de  shoe 
maker  wha'  duns  you  for  a  pair  o'  bro- 
gans  '11  write  you  down,  'Dear  Sir.'  " 

Joshua  was  no  fool. 

"Well,"  said  I,  actually  beginning  to 
98 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

write,  "Now  I  have  that — 'Dear  Miss  Lit 
tle  John' — what  else?" 

More  giggling — and  then: 

"Befo'  Gord,  Marse  Horace,  even  de 
name  of  'er  whilst  you  say  it,  seem  like  it 
summonses  'er  befo'  me  an'  strikes  me 
dumb.  My  language  is  clean  gone  an'  I 
almost  finds  myself  feelin'  in  my  pocket  for 
de  chewin'-gum.  Don't  'terrogate  me, 
please,  Sir.  Jes'  write  it  along  smooth — 
datin'  from  de  gum." 

And  so  I  did,  although  I  could  not  wholly; 
suppress  my  amusement  when  I  replied : 

"Comfortable,  but  not  very  progressive, 
this  chewing-gum  romance — I  should  say." 

The  words  were  above  his  head  I  knew 
and  yet,  not  wholly,  for  he  replied  without 
hesitation : 

"I  s'pec'  it  do  seem  like  gwine  roun'  an' 
roun'  de  mulberry-bush,  to  set  an'  chew 
ag'inst  time,  but  hit 's  brung  me  de  on'iest 
encouragemint  I 's  foun',  so  fer,  yit. 

"You  see,  when  I  comes  away,  one  time 
99 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

I  '11  take  bofe  gums  an'  chew  'em  all  de 
week;  an'  de  nex'  Sunday  she  takes  'em. 
De  two  wads  togedder  ain't  any  too  much 
for  solitude. 

"She  got  'em  dis  week  an'  dat  's  hue- 
come  I  walks  wid  a  lighter  step.  Ef  she 
didn't  lean  todes  me  consider 'ble,  she 
wouldn't  chew  after  me.  Fus'  time  she 
tuk  an'  tuk  de  gum,  she  toss  'er  haid  an' 
she  say  to  me,  she  say: 

"  *  Joshuay,'  she  say,  'you  won't  have  no 
secrets  f 'om  me  by  nex'  Sunday  when  you 
come.  I  gwine  chew  all  yo'  thoughts 
out  'n  yo'  wad  o'  gum,'  she  say." 

"Pretty  good,  for  a  silent  girl,"  I 
laughed.  "And  what  did  you  say  to 
that?" 

"Say?"  he  chuckled.  "  'T  war  n't  no 
time  for  speech.  I  jes — ne '  mine  what  I 
done,  Marse  Horace !  I  could  n't  help  my- 
se'f — an'  she  lookin'  so  mischievious, 
chewin'  out  my  thoughts.  Sir?  He,  he! 
Yas,  Sir — dat  what  I  done;  huccome  you 
100 


A  CASE  IN 

sech  a  good  guesser!  No,  no — not  in  de 
mouf — jes'  two  or  three  times  anywhar  I  'd 
strike  'er  'bouts  'er  face.  Dat  's  to  be  ex 
pected  ! 

"But  go  on  wid  de  letter,  please,  Sir. 
You  got  de  'Dear  Miss  Littlejohn.  Now 
I  takes  my  pen  in  han' — '  " 

It  took  two  hours  to  write  that  first  let 
ter — but  at  the  end  of  the  time,  I  knew  my 
man  pretty  well.  Every  expression  was 
held  in  question  and  threshed  out.  And 
so,  after  several  similar  efforts  at  dicta 
tion  compromised  to  collaboration,  I  finally 
learned  to  turn  out  love  letters  done  to  a 
turn  which  delighted  both  Josh  and  his  sec 
retary.  How  the  "Nut  Brown  mayde" 
liked  them  it  would  be  hard  to  say.  So  far 
as  I  know,  they  were  never  answered. 

The  fellow  had  been  sending  her  some 
thing  like  a  letter  every  week  for  several 
months  when,  one  day,  he  came  to  me,  look 
ing  troubled. 

"Marse  Horace/'  he  complained,  while 
101 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

he  fanned  himself  with  his  hat,  a  sure  sign 
of  embarrassment,  "Marse  Horace,  I  jes' 
called  in  to-day  to  ax  you  to  please,  Sir, 
git  me  engaged,  ef  you  please,  Sir.  Dis 
everlastin'  letter  business,  hit  keep  a  see 
sawing  but  seem  like  hit  don't  git  nowhar! 
An'  I  's  tired  o'  dat  twenty-mile  pull  up 
to  Three  Forks  an'  back  every  Sunday. 
Dey  's  been  Sundays  when  it  's  been  driz 
zly  an'  raw  when  I  'd  'a'  rested  off  f 'om 
de  trip  ef  she  war  n't  in  sech  a  beehive  o' 
yong  fellers,  all  watchin'  to  see  me  slow 
up — an'  of  co'se  I  wouldn't  vacate  dat 
honeysuckle  bench,  an'  dey  every  one 
eager  to  take  my  place.  So,  for  Gord  sake, 
Marse  Horace,  engage  us  right  away!" 

This  was  delightful  and  needless  to  say, 
all  that  I  could  instil  of  the  impetuous 
lover  not  to  be  denied,  went  into  the  next 
effusion — and  the  thing  was  done. 

I  wish  I  had  a  copy  of  this  proposal  let 
ter.  My  recollection  of  it  is  far  from 
clear,  but  I  know  it  breathed  of  passionate 
102 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

appeal  and  I  do  recall  a  certain  pride  in 
the  rime  with  which  it  closed,  especially  in 
its  second  line,  made  to  fit  an  extraordi 
nary  mouth.  I  hope  never  to  forget 
Joshua's  delight  in  the  verses  which  went 
about  like  this : 

An'  so,  my  on'iest  angel,  Juney, 
I  wooes  you  for  yo '  life-long  smile ! 

I  is  yo'  lover,  soft  an'  spooney, 
I  's  traveled  many  a  weary  mile — 

In  every  kind  o'  wind  an'  weather 
I's  plowed  the  road  twixt  you  an'  me, 

So,  let  us  jine  our  lives  together — 
For  time  an'  for  eternitee! 


.  i 


;How  would  'Amen'  do,  to  finish  it 
slick  1"  chuckled  the  boy,  while  tears  of 
mingled  emotion  surprised  his  eyes.  And 
so  it  was  made  to  end : 

— For  time  and  for  eternitee 

Amen! 

A  few  days  after  this,  Joshua  confided  to 
me  that  he  had  given  the  girl  a  ring  which 
103 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

lie  was  hiring  at  twenty-five  cents  a  month 
and  when  I  asked  him  why  he  had  not 
bought  it  outright,  he  scratched  his  head, 
while  he  chuckled : 

"You  see,  Marse  Horace,  hit  's  dis-a- 
way:  S'posin'  I  was  to  pay  cash  for  de 
ring  an'  den  she  'd  jilt  me  off !  I  don't 
want  no  dead  wood  on  my  hands.  No,  Sir ! 
I  'lows  to  wait  an'  see  how  dis  ingagemint 
washes!  Ef  it  proves  to  be  fast  color,  I 
done  made  my  'rangements  at  de  sto'e  to 
have  de  ring-rent  go  on  to  de  buyin '-price 
— twelve  dollars — an'  hit 's  fine  gold,  reel 
rolled-gold  de  man  say — rolled  out  pyore, 
an'  guaranteed  good  for  a  long  married 
life!" 

For  a  while  after  this,  I  saw  less  of 
Joshua.  The  fuller  understanding  seemed 
to  preclude  the  need  of  the  midweek  assur 
ance,  which  I  interpreted  as  a  favorable 
sign.  There  might  easily  be  something  too 
sacred  in  the  ripened  romance  for  trans 
cription  by  a  third  party. 

104 

\ 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

So  I  had  put  the  matter  by,  when,  one 
day,  I  chanced  to  hear  that  the  girl,  Juney, 
had  come  up  to  work  on  land  adjoining 
Joshua 's  field  and  the  affair  seemed  wholly 
flourishing.  Thus  several  months  passed. 

There  were  many  practical  reasons  why 
it  seemed  well  enough  for  them  to  defer 
the  marriage.  Although  he  was  an  indus 
trious  fellow,  Joshua  was  but  a  lad  and  he 
was  only  beginning  life.  He  did  not  own 
even  his  mule  and  he  had  entered  upon  the 
purchase  of  the  few  acres  of  land  he  culti 
vated  only  at  my  earnest  solicitation.  In 
my  limited  experience,  I  have  found  that  a 
deed  to  a  bit  of  land  is  a  great  moral  force, 
even  the  deed  prospective  being  a  stimulus 
to  industry  and  saving. 

The  girl,  Juney,  was  one  of  a  large  fam 
ily  and  her  wages  were  always  collected  by 
a  step-father  several  times  removed,  who 
applied  them  to  the  support  of  the  brood 
— all,  also  "one  half  remove"  from  full 
sister  and  brotherhood.  When  Juney 
105 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

wanted  a  new  gown  or  a  pair  of  shoes,  it 
was  matter  for  family  consultation  and 
often  of  dispute  and  the  Sunday  finery  she 
wore  to  Joshua's  undoing  was  all  second 
hand,  earned  by  odd  jobs  done  overtime 
or  on  holidays. 

So  the  winter  passed  and  I  had  not 
thought  of  the  lovers  for  months  when  one 
day  the  boy  surprised  me  by  another  visit 
and  a  first  glance  at  his  troubled  face 
showed  me  that  things  were  not  going  well 
with  him.  I  greeted  him  cheerfully,  how 
ever: 

"Well,  this  is  like  old  times !  How  goes 
it,  Josh?  Not  getting  back  to  letter- writ 
ing,  are  you?" 

For  answer,  he  dropped  limply  upon  the 
steps  at  my  feet,  and,  fanning  with  the 
fragment  of  felt  which  answered  for  a  hat, 
he  began : 

"Please,  Sir,  ax  me  to  set  down,  Mars- 
ter.  I  needs  yo'  counsel — to  lif '  my  sper- 
its—  " 

106 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

And  just  at  this  moment,  it  happened 
that  a  mocking-bird  in  the  vine  almost  at 
my  elbow  sent  out  a  great,  jubilant  song. 
It  was  so  brave,  so  daring  and  so  trium 
phant  that  it  compelled  attention,  even 
breaking  the  boy 's  sentence  so  that  he  could 
not  but  look  upward. 

"  There  are  two  there — and  they  are  car 
rying  straws, "  I  began,  when  the  singer 
gave  me  a  clearing,  looking  into  the  boy's 
face  as  I  spoke, 

"And  I  thought  of  you,  Josh,  when  I 
watched  them  yesterday.  May  is  love's 
month,  you  know — and  it 's  nearly  here. 
You  remember  what  you  said  about  build 
ing  your  nest — you  and  Juney — " 

The  fellow  put  up  his  hand  in  protest. 

"Don't,  Marse  Horace,  for  Gord  sake, 
don't!  I  can't  stand  it.  No,  Sir,  s'cuse 
me  sayin'  so,  but  I  sho  can't  stand  it! 

"You  axed  me  jes  now  does  I  desire  to 
write  a  letter  an'  my  reply  to  you  is  Yas, 
Sir — I  sho  does.  Dat  's  what  brung  me 
107 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

heah.  My  courage  is  all  dismounted — an' 
I  needs  you  to  write  me  a  letter,  sho — an' 
it  mus '  be  a  scorcher  at  dat ! ' ' 

I  lit  a  cigar,  deliberately  while  I  said : 

"What  's  the  trouble!  Better  begin  at 
the  beginning  and  tell  me  about  it. ' ' 

"Dey  ain't  no  beginnin'  to  it,  Sir — nor 
no  een — but  dey  's  trouble  enough,  all  de 
same!  An'  no  trouble,  nuther — I  wash 
dey  was  trouble — hit  would  smooth  my 
way.  I  can't  sleep  good  at  night — an'  I  'se 
so  sleepy  all  day — an'  seem  like  I  done  los' 
intruss  in  life — an'  ain't  got  no  appetite  to 
work — an ' — an ' — an ' — ' ' 

"About  five  grains  of  quinine,  three 
times  a  day,  Josh,"  I  said  slowly. 
"You  're  malarial,  boy."  But  seeing  that 
my  words  distressed  him,  I  instantly  re 
pented  and  thinking  to  strike  the  seat  of 
the  disorder,  I  asked:  "How  's  Juney?" 

"She's  very  well,  I  thank  you,  Sir. 
Dey  ain't  nothin'  wrong  wid  Juney.  I 
wush  dey  was  somethin'  wrong  wid  'er, 
108 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

so  I  'd  have  occasion  to  quar'l.  I  mought 
as  well  out  wid  it — I  come  to  git  you  to 
write  a  letter  to  Juney,  please,  Sir.  I 
wants  to  be  disingagedl" 

"To  what?"  I  cried.  "You  're  joking, 
man." 

"No,  Sir,  I  ain't  jokin' — an'  I  wants 
you  to  write  de  disingagin'  letter.  I  can't 
broach  it  to  'er  by  word  o'  mouth — an' 
dat  's  huccome  I  come  to  you  ag  'in.  Make 
it  short  an'  swif.  Tell  'er  dat  I  can't 
afford  to  marry !  Tell  'er  I  'se  dead  broke 
— dat  I  done  failed  in  business!" 

"But  you  haven't,  boy.  You  are  doing 
finely — made  a  good  crop — and  a  first  pay 
ment — and  she  knows  it — and — " 

"Cert'n'y,  she  knows  it — an'  dat  's  what 
I  wants.  Ef  she  thought  I  was  sho  'nough 
dead  broke,  I  'd  nuver  git  shet  of  'er. 
You  know  women,  Marse  Horace — an'  you 
knows  how  my-color  women  is!  Dey  fa 
vorite  occupation  is  bendin'  dey  backs  over 
wash-tubs  to  suppo't  a  no-account  man — 
109 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

jes9  for  love!  No,  Sir,  I  wants  to  put  up 
a  fus  class  bluff — an'  she  '11  know  whar 
I  stands!  Let  'er  down  sudden — but 
break  de  fall! 

"An'  put  it  in  de  letter  dat  she  's  wel 
come  to  keep  dat  installmint  ring  ef  she  '11 
complete  de  payments." 

"Why,  Joshua!"  I  was  really  ashamed 
of  the  fellow.  "I  am  surprised.  I 
thought  you  would  be  more  generous." 

"So  I  is  generous,  Marse  Horace — so 
I  is  generous!  Ef  I  was  mean,  or  jes 
jus',  I  'd  finish  dem  payments  myself  an' 
take  de  ring  to  bestow  on  my  next  ch'ice. 
Dey  ain't  but  two  dollars  due  on  it  an'  ef 
she  wants  to  buy  it  in  for  dat  amount, 
she  's  welcome. 

"But,  for  Gord  sake,  git  me  disingaged, 
Marster!  I  'se  clair  wo'e  out!" 

"You  haven't  told  me  about  it,  yet. 
What's  the  trouble?  Isn't  she  true — 
and  affectionate?" 

"Oh,  yas,  Sir— yas,  Sir— No,  Sir— dey 
110 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

ain't  no  thin'  to  tell.  Juney,  she  's  all 
right.  She  's  too  good  for  me,  I  reckon 
—an'  maybe  dat  's  all  de  trouble.  I  feels 
like  a  starched  shirt  after  a  rain — an*  you 
know  hit 's  onpossible  for  sech  as  dat  to 
put  up  a  bold  front.  Hit 's  boun'  to 
give  in. 

"So  long  as  I  was  losin'  my  shoes  in 
dem  miles  o'  sticky  mud  every  Sunday, 
I  'd  'a'  died  for  her.  When  dey  was 
twenty-nine  men  elbowin'  one  another  to  git 
a  look  at  'er — an'  one  or  two  razor-fights 
a  week — " 

"You  mustn't  expect  to  have  things  all 
your  own  way,"  I  submitted,  gently;  "you 
know  the  old  saying,  'The  course  of  true 
love  never  runs  smooth.' 

"Yas,  Sir,  I  knows  dat !  Dat  what  I  say. 
Hit  's  runnin'  too  smooth — too  damn  smoo' 
— s'cuse  me,  Marster;  I  ain't  got  de  polite 
language  to  dicorate  dis  case  to  its  needs 
an'  I  don'  know  what  to  say. 

"Talkin'  about  Juney,  I  spec'  she 's 
111 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

about  de  bes'  gal  on  dis  plantation,  ef  not 
on  de  whole  Orange  Turn — an'  dat  makes 
de  way  hard  for  me.  Soon  as  she  come  up 
heah,  she  give  out  to  all  de  yether  boys  dat 
she  was  my  fy-an-say — an7  she  ain't  nuver 
is  looked  at  nobody  else — an1  she  do  all  my 
mendin'  for  me — an'  she  sho  do  make  me 
walk  a  chalk — she  sho  do.  She  's  even 
started  keepin'  my  money  for  me — an* 
she  's  got  me  dat  stingy  I  almos'  begrudges 
'er  de  bottle  o'  ginger-pop  I  treats  'er  to 
on  Sadday  nights — she  's  so  set  on  savin' 
for  de  house-keepin'.  Why,  I  ain't  wo'e 
dat  duck  suit  you  gimme  but  once-t  dis  last 
season — an'  dat  time,  she  done  it  up  for  me 
— an'  she  ain't  nuver  is  brought  it  back. 
She  say  dey  ain't  no  use  wastin'  it  on  her. 
Tell  de  truth,  I  ain't  got  no  thin'  ag'in'  de 
gal — an'  I  'd  do  anything  I  could  for  'er— 
in  reason.  But,  befo'  Gord,  I  done  los'  my 
taste  for  'er,  dat 's  all — 

"So,  now  you  knows  de  case  in  full, 
112 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

please   to   write    de    letter — an9   make    it 
straight  and  strong  I" 

There  is  pathos  to  be  found  in  every 
life-story,  if  we  follow  it  far  enough.  '  I 
felt  sorry  for  the  lad  and  yet  I  could  not 
forget  the  other  party  to  the  comedy- 
comedy  which  has  ever  its  tragedy  note — 
and  so  my  mind  reverted  to  the  girl,  the 
absent,  the  over-sure — the  rejected.  And 
my  next'  plea  was  for  her : 

"And  how  will  Juney  take  this, 
Joshua ?" 

He  removed  his  hat  again — and  began 
fanning : 

"Dat  's  some'hV  I  can't  allow  myse'f 
to  study  about,  Marse  Horace.  Dat  's  her 
een  o'  de  line." 

"Yes,  it  is  her  end  of  the  line — but  you 
threw  her  the  line,  didn't  you!  Suppose 
you  think  this  thing  over  ?  You  Ve  got  tired 
being  engaged.  There  's  nothing  new  in 
that.  But  when  people  get  tired  being 
engaged,  they  generally  get  married— for 
8  113 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

a  change.  My  advice  to  you  is  to  go  and 
hurry  up  the  wedding.  I  'm  sending  Jim 
Herricks  and  his  wife  down  to  work  in 
the  sorghum  field  and  that  leaves  their 
cabin  vacant  and  I  was  thinking  the  other 
day  that  you  and  Juney  might  like  to  move 
in  there — there 's  a  nice  little  garden- 
patch  there,  and — you  've  got  a  neat  little 
balance  to  your  credit.  Draw  out  enough 
to  finish  paying  for  that  ring — and  to  buy 
a  few  necessary  things,  and — 

"And,  by  the  way,  does  Juney  know  you 
owe  for  the  ring?" 

"Yas,  Sir — she  knows  it,  all  right!  Dat 
is,  she  knows  it  now.  I  told  'er  las'  Chues- 
day  night  when  we  was  walkin'  home  Pom 
prayer-meetin'.  She  had  stood  up  an' 
give  'er  speunce  in  chu'ch — toP  how  happy 
she  was  wid  love  sekyore  in  'er  life  an' 
all  sech  as  dat — an'  somehow,  she  seemed 
jes  a  little  too  s'rene  in  'er  mind — so  I  up 
an'  told  'er  I  was  behin'  in  my  payments 
on  de  ring,  an'  one  thing  led  to  another  tel 
114 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

I  had  out  wid  de  entire  story — how  I  had 
rented  it  tel  we  could  sample  de  ingage- 
mint.  But  I  couldn't  make  'er  mad,  no 
ways.  She  'lowed  dat  dat  was  a  good 
plan.  Ef  I  could  git  'er  hoppin'  mad  one 
time,  I  mought  up  an'  marry  'er  endurin' 
de  riconcilement. 

'  '  But  dey  ain  't  no  use,  now.  Dis  ingage- 
mint  is  played  out  by  too  fair  a  season, 
same  as  you  see  de  cotton  fields  do,  some 
peaceful  yeahs,  when  everything  seems 
goin'  along  heavenly  an'  de  fields  start  to 
swivel  up,  f'om  pyore  lack  o'  conterdic- 
tion.  For  a  fine  crop,  gimme  enough  too- 
colds  an'  too-hots  an'  too-wets  an'  too- 
drys  to  egg  on  de  growth.  Dis  nachel 
death  f'om  heart-f ailin '  is  a  hopeless  com 
plaint. 

"I  ain't  nuver  is  got  drunk,  but  dey  's 
been  times  lately,  good  religious  times  at 
dat,  when  seem  like  I  could  understand 
how  some  fool  men  does  git  drunk — jes  to 
break  step! 

115 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

"So,  write  de  letter,  please,  Sir — an' 
I  '11  call  for  it  about  dis  time  to-morrer — 
a  rousin'  disingagin'  letter — no  ifs  or  ~buts 
to  it!" 

The  announcement  of  dinner  put  an  end 
to  our  interview  and  the  boy  went  home, 
but  as  he  turned  down  the  walk,  I  called 
to  him:  "Not  to-morrow,  Joshua.  Come 
in  again  on  Saturday,  and  I  '11  be  ready 
for  you." 

I  wanted  time  to  make  some  inquiries 
about  the  girl  whom  he  was  throwing  over, 
and  to  study  the  situation  a  little.  I  had 
heard  only  the  best  reports  of  Juney  as  a 
worker  and  Josh  was  an  exceptional  hand, 
industrious,  peaceable  and  apparently  hon 
est,  and,  in  my  association  with  him 
through  his  pathetic  romance,  I  had  grown 
fond  of  the  boy. 

And  I  sympathized  with  him  in  his  di 
lemma  more  than  I  would  confess,  being  a 
man  myself  and  realizing  the  exhilaration 
of  pursuit.  But,  even  more  sensibly,  I 
116 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

knew  the  luxury  of  surrender — of  love  in 
the  house — of  home  and  the  peace  of  ful 
filment — and  so  my  championship  of  the 
woman  was  largely  in  the  man's  interest, 
after  all. 

This  interview  was  on  Wednesday.  I 
had  allowed  myself  three  days  for  investi 
gation  and  reflection. 

In  the  late  afternoon  of  the  day  follow 
ing  this,  Thursday,  I  was  sitting  in  my  ac 
customed  place  on  the  veranda,  smoking, 
as  usual,  while  I  chewed  the  cud  of  specula 
tion  variously,  for  Joshua's  was  not  the 
only  tangle  which  I  was  interested  in 
straightening. 

The  sun  was  low  and  when  I  saw  the 
outline  of  a  slender  girl  against  the  crim 
son  and  perceived  that  she  was  approach 
ing  from  the  " quarters  road,"  it  did  not 
occur  to  me  that  it  might  be  Juney  until  she 
was  quite  up  to  me  and  had  spoken: 

"  Jedge  Bansom,"  she  courtesied  low  as 
she  spoke,  "dis  is  Juney  Littlejohn  Pom 
117 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

Three  Forks — and  I  called  to  ax  you, 
please,  Sir,  ef  I  mought  have  de  liberty  to 
consult  wid  you — about — " 

' '  About  Joshua  1"  I  interrupted,  delight 
in  my  voice. 

"No,  Sir — not  about  Joshuay — dis 
time."  And  when  she  spoke  his  name, 
standing  in  the  low  sunlight,  I  fancied  that 
I  saw  a  swift  bronzing  of  the  yellow  of 
her  cheek.  But  only  for  a  moment,  for  she 
had  soon  recovered  herself,  and  she  spoke 
clearly,  if  her  voice  did  falter  a  little : 

"I  scarcely  knows  how  to  'splain  de  case 
out  to  you,  Jedge — but — but  I  was  bleeged 
to  come  myself  or  else  send  some  tattletale 
— on  private  business — so  I  come — 

"An'  I  wants  to  ax  you,  Jedge,  is  you 
got  a  license  to  marry,  dis  yeah?" 

This  was  startling — marriage,  and 
Joshua  not  in  it ! 

"I  haven't  a  license,  exactly — but,  as 
judge  of  this  circuit,  I  do  perform  the  civil 
118 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

ceremony,   sometimes.    Would  you  mind 
telling  me  who  may  need  my  services  f ' ' 

"Me,  Sir,"  in  voice  scarcely  audible. 

"When?" 

"To-morrow  night." 

"You  and — who  else?" 

At  this,  she  threw  a  timorous  glance  over 
her  shoulder  and  even  further  lowered  her 
voice. 

"Me  an'  Sam  Sly  del,"  bronzing  again. 

"Sam  Slydel  of  Three  Forks?  The 
well-digger  with  the  cross — ?" 

"Yas,  Sir— dat  's  him." 

"Mh— hm!  Yes,  I  see.  I  don't  like  to 
ask  it,  Juney,  but  you  are  not  exactly  a 
stranger  to  me,  you  know,  although  I  have 
never  seen  you  until  now — and  I  am  inter 
ested  in  you.  You  see,  I  am  in  court  a 
good  deal  and  I  hear  a  good  many  things 
about  people  who  get  into  trouble.  Has  n't 
this  Sam  Slydel  been — hasn't  he  been  in 
jail?" 

119 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

"He  don't  min'  dat."  She  looked  up 
now. 

"But  I  was  thinking  of  you.  As  his 
wife,  you  would  mind  it." 

"He  's  out,  now — an'  he  say  he  nuver 
is  stole  all  dem  chickens,  nohow.  Dey  was 
others  besides  Sam  in  dat  chicken  mix- 
try." 

And  then,  she  added,  glancing  again  be 
hind  her: 

"An'  dis  is  a  secret  business,  Jedge  Ban- 
som,  please,  Sir.  Sam  wrote  me  word  by 
letter  dat  I  better  call  an'  see  you  myself 
— but  he  charged  me  not  to  tell  you  who  I 
was  gwine  marry.  Dat  's  what  I  git  for 
tellin'  all  I  knows." 

"I  shall  not  betray  your  confidence, 
Juney.  There  is  no  secret  about  a  man's 
being  in  jail  for  chicken-stealing — and  I 
wished  to  be  sure  that  the  woman  he  mar 
ried  should  know  it.  And  then,  as  I  told 
you  just  now,  I  have  been  hearing  a  great 
deal  of  you  from  Joshua.  Would  you  mind 
120 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

telling  me  what  has  happened  between  you 
and  him?" 

" Ain't  nothin'  p'tic'lar  happened.  I  jes 
got  tired.  I  come  down  heah  las'  fall.  I 
swapped  fields  wid  a  gal  wha'  was  keepin' 
company  wid  a  Three  Forks  boy — an '  took 
her  field  jes  so  Josh  would  n't  have  to  take 
cold  in  all  dat  sof '  suction  mud,  walkin'  it 
twice-t  every  Sunday — an'  I  craved  to  see 
de  world,  anyhow. 

"So,  ef  me  an'  Sam  comes  over  heah 
to-morrer  night  about  dis  time,  you  '11  tie 
de  knot,  will  you,  Sir?  He  done  swo'  he 
would  take  me  back  'Mis'  Sly  del,'  ef  de 
court  knows  itse'f — an'  I  don't  want  no 
fights.  Joshuay  done  whupped  him  out 
three  times  a 'ready — an'  I  know  he  '11 
come  armed — wid  gun  and  razors. 
Joshuay  ain't  nuver  is  had  no  patience  wid 
'im.  Say  'Sam  Slydel'  to  Joshuay,  an' 
it  's  wuss  'n  a  red  rag  to  a  bull — an'  so  I 
lays  out  to  be  married  an'  clair  out  befo' 
Josh  gits  wind  of  it." 
121 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

"  And  so  you  find  that  you  like  him  better 
than  you  do  Josh,  after  all?" 

At  this,  she  gave  a  helpless  shrug — and 
even  laughed,  languidly: 

"I  s'pec'  I  '11  have  to  let  it  go  at  dat. 
I  been  ingaged  to  Sam,  off  'n  an'  on,  right 
along,  jes  a  sort  o'  loose  ingagemint,  for  a 
side-pleasure — but,  of  cose,  Sam  ain't  in  it 
wid  Josh — not  wid  me!  But — but — " 

She  was  twirling  Josh's  ring  on  her  fin 
ger  as  she  spoke. 

"But — anything  for  a  change, "  she  con 
cluded,  wearily.  "Dat  's  all  past  hist'ry, 
now.  An'  when  I  'm  gone,  I  wants  to  leave 
dis  ingagemint  ring  o'  Josh's  wid  you, 
please,  Sir — so  I  '11  be  sho  Josh  gits  it 
safe-t." 

"Wouldn't  you  better  leave  it  with  me, 
now?"  I  scanned  her  face  as  I  put  the 
question.  She  seemed  to  be  looking  far 
afield  as  if,  for  the  moment,  forgetful  of 
my  presence,  but,  recovering  herself,  she 
turned  her  glance  upon  me  while  she  said, 
122 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

slowly:  "Not  yit — not  tel  to-morrer 
night."  And,  as  she  turned  away,  she 
added:  "Thanky,  Jedge — thanky  kindly 
— an'  please  to  ricollec'  dat  dis  is  all  pri 
vate  business,  please,  Sir." 

"I  shall  not  let  Josh  know  that  I  have 
seen  you — if  that  is  what  you  mean?" 

' '  Dat 's  all— thanky,  Sir. ' '  And  she  was 
gone — a  slim  silhouette  against  the  sunset. 

As  soon  as  she  had  left  the  footpath,  I 
started  off  in  the  direction  of  Joshua's 
cabin.  All  my  testimony  was  in,  now,  and 
I  saw  my  way  to  win  my  case.  Before  I 
had  reached  the  fellow's  door,  however,  I 
perceived  him  crossing  the  field  in  the  op 
posite  direction  so  I  beckoned  to  him  to 
come  and  we  walked  down  the  road  to 
gether.  I  was  glad  to  have  this  assurance 
that  he  could  not  possibly  have  seen  the 
girl.  It  gave  me  the  needed  clearing  for 
my  manceuver. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  Josh,"  I  began. 
"I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  will  write  your 
123 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

letter  to-night — but  you  '11  have  to  come 
up  to  the  house  and  dictate  it. ' ' 

He  gave  me  a  quick  look,  but  said  noth 
ing — so  I  went  on : 

"The  truth  is,  if  you  put  it  off,  Juney 
may  not  be  here — that  is  if  what  I  hear  is 
true — and  it  came  pretty  straight. " 

Still,  no  answer,  although  I  saw  that  he 
was  instantly  interested. 

"I  wonder  if  you  happen  to  know  a  fel 
low  by  the  name  of  Slydel — Sam  Slydel,  I 
believe  he  calls  himself  1" 

"Sam  Sly  Devil,  you  better  say,"  he 
snarled.  '  '  What  's  he  got  to  do  wid  Juney, 
I  like  to  know!" 

"He  is  coming  down  here  to-morrow 
night,  determined  to  marry  her — and  he 
has  sent  me  word  to  be  ready  to  tie  the 
knot— that  's  all  I  know."  And  after  a 
minute,  I  added :  "Of  course,  this  lets  you 
out — and  it  will  make  things  easy  for 
you." 

I  have  seen  some  sudden  transformations 
124 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

in  my  life,  but  never  such  as  that  wrought 
by  the  magic  of  a  name  which  seemed  to 
transform  the  apathetic  youth  of  yester 
day  into  a  man  of  action  and  of  fire. 

"When?"  The  voice  which  asked  the 
question  was  so  low  in  the  throat  and  so 
remote  that  it  frightened  me. 

"I  said  to-morrow — to-morrow  night," 
I  answered,  and  then  sudden  anger  rose  in 
me  and  flared — resentment  in  behalf  of  the 
girl.  No  doubt  my  voice  was  satirical 
when  I  added :  "It  gives  you  time  to  write 
the  letter — and  throw  her  over. ' ' 

Perhaps  I  may  seem  to  have  been  taking 
unwarranted  chances  for  the  girl's  dignity, 
but  I  felt  sure  of  my  case. 

"Write  what!"  he  snarled  again,  and 
I  quite  forgave  him  for  forgetting  our  rela 
tions  for  the  moment.  A  tempest  was  rag 
ing  within  him  and  while  he  stood,  silent, 
his  face  twitched  with  emotion. 

Finally,  he  turned  to  me : 

"Is  you  gwine  be  home  to-night,  Marse 
125 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

Horace — about  eight  o 'clock! "  He  spoke 
now  in  the  even  voice  of  control. 

"I  shall  be  in  my  study  as  usual,  from 
eight  until  ten,"  I  answered — and  that  was 
all. 

It  was  half -past  eight  and  I  was  deep  in 
the  case  of  "Schupert  vs.  Schupert"  when 
I  heard  a  timid  rap  at  my  door  and  in  reply 
to  my  none  too  amiable  ' '  Come  in ! "  there 
entered  the  man,  Joshua,  leading  by  the 
hand  none  other  than  the  maid,  Juney  Lit- 
tlejohn. 

"Why!"  I  exclaimed.  "Is  that  you, 
Josh?"  I  had  involuntarily  risen  as  if  in 
contemplation  of  that  which  was  so  soon  to 
be  required  of  me. 

"Marse  Horace — I  means  to  say  Jedge 
Eansom,  I  wushes  to  make  you  'quainted 
wid  Miss  Juney  Littlejohn." 

"And  so,  this  is  Juney,  of  whom  I  have 

heard  you  speak  so  often.    I  am  glad  to 

know  you,  Juney."     So  I  set  her  mind  at 

rest  and  in  her  grateful  glance  I  had  my 

126 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

reward.  "  Joshua  has  been  in  love  with 
you  for  a  long  time,  my  girl.  He  is  a  good 
boy — and  I  believe  you  are  worthy  of  him. ' ' 
Then,  turning  to  Joshua,  I  added,  "And 
now,  what  can  I  do  for  you  both  f ' ' 

Josh  fairly  giggled  the  words  out  of 
shape  as  he  replied : 

"Git — git — git  out  de  marryin'-book, 
please,  Sir." 

I  have  performed  a  good  many  similar 
ceremonies,  first  and  last,  but  never  one 
with  more  satisfaction  than  this.  The  fel 
low  was  fairly  radiant  in  the  glow  of  tri 
umph  and,  if  the  girl  never  looked  her  name 
before,  she  might  have  impersonated  the 
poet's  month  of  June  as  she  stood  in  her 
simple  flowered  muslin,  fairly  enwrapped 
in  the  glamour  of  the  "perfect  day"  of 
love's  fulfilment. 

They  had  been  gone  only  a  few  moments 
when  Joshua  was  back  again,  for  a  parting 
127 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

word,  while  his  bride  waited  at  the  gate. 

"For  Gord  sake,"  he  almost  whispered, 
forgetting  that  we  were  alone,  "don't  let 
on  to  nobody,  Marse  Horace.  I  ain't 
named  dat  chicken-stealin '  jail-bird  to  'er 
— an'  she  don't  kno*w  I  s'picion  nothin' — 
an'  could  you,  please,  Sir,  telephome  de 
news  o'  dis  ma'iage  over  to  Three  Forks, 
right  away,  please,  Sir? 

"We  ain't  had  much  time  sence  I  con 
versed  wid  you  a  while  ago,  but  we  's  done 
some  swif '  talkin' — an'  we  gwine  have  de 
chu'ch-weddin'  a  week  f 'om  Sunday  night 
— wid  all  proper  bridesmaids  an '  ring-cake 
— an'  everything.  I  don't  'low  to  have  lit 
tle  Juney  stinted,  jes  on  account  o'  mar- 
ryin'  a  blame  doggone  fool  like  me,  no,  Sir ! 
But,  I  tell  you  de  truth,  Marse  Horace, 
nothin'  but  a  lightnin '-flash  '11  strike  some 
folks!  But  I 's  struck  wid  a  '  'lectric' 
spark  all  right,  now — an'  I  's  dat  racklass 
happy,  my  foots  ain't  touchin'  de  groun'! 


128 


"Git — git  —  git  out  de  marry  in' -book,  please  sir" 


A  CASE  IN  DIPLOMACY 

"An'  you  '11  sen'  de  telephome,  please, 
Sir?  Thanky,  Sir!  An'  make  it  a  peace 
able  message  an'  I  trus'  it  '11  git  dar  befo' 
Sam  Sly  Devil  gits  started  on  his  ram- 
pagious  weddin'- journey.  I  may  have  to 
kill  'im  off  befo'  I  die,  yit— but  I  don't 
crave  to  resk  makin'  Juney  a  bridal  gal 
lows  widder — an'  so  sen'  de  telephome, 
please,  Sir!" 


129 


THE  AFTERGLOW 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

IT  is  all  so  strange — so  incomprehensible 
—so  impossible !    And  yet — 

As  I  read  over  this  marriage-notice, 
and  realize  the  pain  in  my  heart,  I  know 
by  these  witnesses  that  it  is  even  so. 

I,  Mary  Eandolph,  age  beyond  mention 
and  of  a  dignity  hitherto  unassailed — Mary 
Eandolph,  artist,  known  among  the  socially 
elect,  envied  by  many  and  questioned  by 
none — Mary  Eandolph,  well-seasoned 
widow  of  the  proud  statesman  and  sol 
dier  whose  name  she  is  said  to  ornament 
— I,  yes,  even  I — standing  alone  in  my 
little  sky  studio,  taking  my  morning  coffee 
which  I  have  myself  scientifically  dripped 
— and  which  I  have  to-day  drunk  standing, 
not  knowing  that  I  stood,  so  great  is  my 
emotional  upheaval — 
133 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

I  am  to-day  a  jilted  woman ! 

(All  the  world  's  a  stage — and — what  's 
this  tittering  infthe  gallery?) 

"Who  cares  for  elderly  romance  1" 
Who,  indeed,  beyond  its  principals  ?  Who 
else  really  believes  in  it?  Who  knows  any 
thing  about  it — who  indeed,  but  the  el- 
derlies  themselves? 

And  yet —  What  have  we  in  earth's 
spring-time  so  rich  and  radiant,  so  affluent 
of  color,  so  lavish  of  fragrance  as  autumn 
roses!  What  has  the  east,  at  early  sun 
rise  with  all  its  serenities  and  silver  in 
sinuations,  its  glittering  innuendoes  and 
bland  certitudes,  to  compare  with  the  mira 
cle  of  glory  painted  upon  the  west  when  the 
sun  is  low? 

All  this  has  been  said,  and  better  said, 
before  now,  no  doubt — and  what  has  it 
to  do  with  me,  Mary  Eandolph,  and  the 
marriage-notice  which  came  up  to  me  in 
the  dumb-waiter  in  the  columns  of  the 
Morning  Herald,  along  with  my  half  pint 
134 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

of  cream  and  my  rolls? — the  notice  which 
I  happened  to  see  only  because  the  jar 
had  turned  and  spilt  my  cream  over  his 
name,  offering  it  to  me  thus,  coupled  with 
hers,  in  a  rich,  opaline  translucence. 

Dear  me !  How  my  soul  shrieked  at  the 
sight!  For  the  presentment  was  final  as 
brief— just  the  names  and  date  and  place 
—Berlin,  Oct.  5th.  Evidently  cabled. 
How  grotesque  a  feature  in  a  touring- 
party  of  elderlies!  I  could  not  afford  to 
join  them — fortunately — or  unfortunately. 
How  would  it  have  been  had  I  been  of  the 
party  as  planned? 

And  so  it  was  that  I  stood  and  silently 
drank  my  coffee,  not  knowing  that  I  stood, 
nor  that  my  vacant  chair  was  behind  me 
all  the  time. 

I  believe,  attempting  analysis,  that  it  is 
the  technique  of  elderly  romance  which  is 
uninviting.  If  this  be  true,  I  am  saved, 
that  is  to  say,  we  are  saved  from  the  ig 
nominy  of  grotesqueness  in  this  romance 
135 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

so  suddenly  cut  short,  for  there  was  in  it 
no  technique  whatsoever.  Which  is  to  say, 
he  never  said  anything  or  did  anything 
— or  I  never  said  or  did  anything  which  to 
the  most  fastidious  scrutiny  could  be 
called  romantic  in  the  slightest  degree. 

Am  I  stripping  the  tale  of  any  possible 
interest  by  this  declaration,  now  at  the  on 
set?  If  so,  even  so,  for  I  must  be  truth 
ful,  though  I  fail  of  appeal. 

Is  it  a  slim  little  story,  then — meager 
and  of  middle-age — medium  in  quality  and 
lukewarm — gray  in  tone  and  of  a  minor 
key? 

Not  on  your  life ! 

Behold  this  Indian  peach  which  I  hold 
in  my  hand,  the  autumnal  fruitage  of  the 
tree's  midsummer  romance — on  this  sev 
enth  day  of  October !  Is  it  mediocre,  think 
you,  with  its  downy  cheek  of  red,  its  splen 
dor  of  form,  its  affluent  personality? 

I  stand  at  my  window,  now,  and  I  lay  the 
peach  upon  a  clump  of  maple  leaves  beside 
136 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

a  copper  bowl  in  which  there  glow  deep 
purples,  blood-red  with  sap,  in  autumn 
bloom  and  grape. 

No,  you  may  not  like  our  romance,  but  it 
is  no  more  insipid  or  colorless  than  the 
burnished  fruit  reflected  in  this  copper. 

But  listen: 

I  shall  never  forget  the  first  time  we  met. 
I  doubt  whether  he  remembers,  or  remem 
bered,  even  before  he  succumbed  to  that 
which  has  eventuated  as  shown  in  the  mar 
riage-notice.  But  I  do  so  well  remember. 

He  was  one  of  three  men  at  the  dinner 
who,  my  friendly  hostess  forewarned  me, 
were  "especially  worth  while." 

Yes,  I  met  him  at  a  dinner-party ;  I  for 
got  to  say  that.  My  narrative  will  prob 
ably  tumble  over  itself  in  places  as  I  go 
along.  It  is  all  so  fresh — three  greedy  flies 
still  sap  the  cream  from  his  name. 

Yes,  we  met  at  dinner.  Indeed,  he  took 
me  in,  or  out,  rather,  for  it  was  an  al 
fresco  affair  served  in  a  bower  of  bloom- 
137 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

ing  wistaria  in  a  conservatory  at  Lawrence 
and  the  women  meant  to  surprise  the  men 
by  appearing  in  Oriental  costumes  and  the 
men  got  wind  of  it  and  really  surprised 
us  by  filing  in  dressed  as  Chinese  man 
darins. 

On  this  very  first  occasion  while  he  sat 
beside  me,  I  noticed  that  his  shoulders 
were  no  higher  than  mine.  But  the  thing 
which  I  felt — on  this  first  day — was  a  sort 
of  preeminence  in  the  man,  in  spite  of  his 
smallness.  Gently  gray  and  elderly,  he 
seemed  one  of  those  whose  waters  of  life 
have  crystallized  at  high  tide. 

I  cannot  tell  why,  but  from  the  time  we 
sat  at  table  on  that  first  evening  to  this 
writing — the  length  of  four  long  seasons 
— I  seem  never  to  have  been  unconscious  of 
this  man's  existence. 

He  had  said  very  little,  all  told,  and  that 
little  was,  as  he  has  ever  been,  distinctly 
impersonal. 

With  none  of  the  effusiveness  of  certain 
mustaches  across  the  table,  he  was  kindly 
138 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

and  clear  with  the  really  rare  faculty  of 
saying  a  right  thing  at  a  right  time. 
Thoughts  and  countercurrents,  as  they 
passed  his  way,  he  handled  and  tossed 
along,  often  enriched,  I  was  pleased  to  ob 
serve,  and  deftly  fitted  to  some  one  else. 

I  think  he  liked  me  from  the  first.  Of 
course,  he  never  said  so.  That  would  have 
been  high  sentiment.  Indeed,  no.  But 
we  became  friends,  without  formality  or 
progression.  It  was  as  if,  when  we  met, 
we  found  that  we  were  friends — and  went 
along  quietly,  accepting  each  other  without 
question. 

In  a  month  or  two,  he  had  been  several 
times  to  call — had  sent  me  two  or  three 
books — dined  with  me  and  other  friends, 
once — and  I  twice  with  him  and  his  sister 
whom  he  wished  "to  know  me"  in  their 
home — and  once  with  him  without  other 
friends,  at  a  good  hotel.  You  see,  we 
were  not  young  people  and  so,  not  hedged 
in  by  conventions. 

Since  the  first  day  he  came  and  sat — in 
139 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

my  armchair  there  by  the  window — he  has 
never  taken  the  slightest  liberty  that  would 
have  been  unbecoming  to  that  first  day. 
He  is  always  in  good  taste — such  a  con 
trast  to  Volsinger,  the  Omaha  poet,  who, 
because  I  had  been  friendly  to  him  and 
Southly  hospitable,  calmly  walked  back 
and  opened  my  ice-box  one  evening,  in  the 
presence  of  other  guests  and  proceeded 
noisily  to  cut  ice  for  his  glass — and  to  pass 
it  around,  if  you  please.  My  ears  burn, 
now,  when  I  think  of  it — the  gawk  that  he 
was — and  is! 

And  yet,  God  likes  him  and  gives  him 
poems  to  write,  real  poems,  and  who  am 
I  to  snub  him?  He  may  come  and  open 
my  ice-box  again.  Indeed,  he  is  far  more 
diverting  than  the  friend  I  mourn,  is  Vol 
singer,  the  crazy  poet.  It  takes  scope  to 
realize  him.  He  keeps  one  looking  up  and 
down — down  at  his  execrable  manners— 
and  up  to  his  inspirational  plane. 

But  for  a  steady  diet,  day  in  and  day 
140 


THE  AFTEBGLOW 

out,  there  's  nothing  like  a  quiet  gentleman. 
The  sun  isn't  exciting,  in  its  daily  upris 
ings  and  goings  down — but  it  is  good  to 
live  along  with.  Pyrotechnics  are  for 
holidays. 

I  am  an  artist,  by  profession — which  is 
to  say,  my  pictures  are  for  sale — and  they 
do  sell.  He,  my  friend,  buys  water-colors 
—buys  them  generously,  but — strange  I 
never  thought  of  it  before — he  never 
seemed  to  think  of  buying  one  of  mine. 
That  he  respects  my  art,  I  feel  sure — or, 
no,  perhaps  I  am  mistaken.  He  praises 
my  pictures  behind  my  back,  but  possibly 
that  which  he  really  admires  is  only  the 
pluck  which  makes  me  do  them,  for  he 
reveres  self-supporting  women. 

Very  few  of  my  friends  buy  my  pictures 
and  I  'm  glad  of  it.  It  makes  one  feel 
shoppy  and  commercial  to  sell  his  wares. 
And  yet — now  that  I  think  of  it,  it  is  queer 
that  he  who  makes  a  fetish  of  color,  and 
whose  walls  are  aflame  with  it,  should 
141 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

never  have  tried  to  possess  one  of  the 
temperamental  studies  which  have  given 
me  what  vogue  I  enjoy.  It  is  curious — ' 
and  in  the  light  of  this  shutting-off-of- 
light,  I  am  analytical. 

And  h^  is  married!  And,  while  he  does 
not  know  it,  I  am  a  jilted  woman. 

And  how  badly  I  am  telling  the  story! 
And  I  care  so  much — dear,  dear,  I  care  so 
much! 

It  was  this  way : 

You  see,  such  a  thing  as  marriage  has 
never  been  in  the  back  of  my  head. 
There  's  no  man  on  earth  I  'd — 

But  what's  the  use?  He's  married 
now,  and  certainly  marriage  for  me,  after 
all  these  years,  would  be  a  great  mistake. 
I  may  not  paint  great  pictures,  but,  such 
as  they  are,  they  are  mine.  And  I  care 
for  them — and  I  like  to  work  any  old  way, 
any  old  time,  when  the  spell  is  on — and  to 
belong,  legitimately,  to  no  one  but  myself 
and  what  I  have  the  temerity  to  call  my  art. 
142 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

Of  course,  a  man  is  an  interference,  when 
you  are  married  to  him — even  if  he  is  a 
help.  And  then,  there  is  always  the  ques 
tion  of  one's  duty  to  him— I  mean  there  's 
no  question  as  to  one's  duty  to  him,  and  a 
division  of  enthusiasms — I 

What  am  I  saying?  I  do  so  helieve  in 
the  very  thing  which  I  am  repudiating, 
Love  and  Life  expressed  to  the  full,  in 
dividually  and  jointly— with  mutual  free 
dom,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  I  hate  set 
theories,  but  I  believe  a  good  many  of 
them.  Only,  for  me,  it  would  never  do. 
I  am  too — too  temperamental,  perhaps. 
I  'm  too  something — and  I  'd  soon  be  giv 
ing  up  my — 

My  art,  of  course — and  taking  to  French 
house-gowns,  and — and  all  that.  Not  that 
I  despise  clothes,  as  it  is.  I  'm  not  that 
variety  of  artist.  On  the  contrary,  I  en 
joy  dress,  but  not  as  a  woman  of  fashion, 
for,  it  is  so  hopelessly  bromidic  just  to 
follow. 

143 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

I  suppose  that,  first  and  last,  I  am  a 
colorist  and  I  know  I  am  amber-skinned, 
— that  my  eyes  are  gray-green  and  heavily 
lashed  and  my  hair  would  have  been  red 
if  it  had  n't  been  castor-colored.  (The  sun 
declares  it  is  red,  now,  but  it  could  never 
prove  it  behind  its  own  back.)  And  so, 
I  wear  aqua  marines  and  pale  topazes — 
and  tourmalines  for  frivolity — and  gird 
my  soft  Empire  gowns  with  dull  gold  and 
confine  myself  to  one  quiet  tone  through 
out  a  toilet — and  I  make  a  point  of  slip 
pers  and  wraps. 

It  is  well  for  a  person  of  wide  color-feel 
ing  and  narrow  purse  to  be  sensitive  to  the 
dangers  of  over  dressing.  It  is  so  easy  to 
step  over  the  line — and  to  become  ultra 
Bohemic  and  " queer."  I  shouldn't  so 
very  much  mind  my  friends  calling  me 
" picturesque,"  but  I  cringe  at  the  chance 
I  'd  give  mine  enemies.  Think  of  even 
the  good  Bridget's  looking  after  me,  her 
mouth  full  of  pins,  after  putting  the  last 
144 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

topaz  into  the  back  of  my  collar,  and  fear 
ing  to  swallow  such  words  as  "holy 
show!" 

My  main  bulwark  of  strength,  my 
Gibraltar,  is  soap.  Good  simple  soap,  not 
too  highly  flavored  of  money  or  musk — 
yes,  soap — and  a  manicure  of  restraint. 
These  things — and  a  well-modulated  voice 
— not  too  much  thought  about  the  latest 
pronunciations — and — 

Well,  just  being  a  lady  in  the  long  ago 
sense  of  having  been  born  that  way.  I 
like  the  old  pronunciations,  sometimes. 
These  things  are  inherited,  and  perhaps 
they  wear  better  than  some  of  the  newly- 
learned. 

My  manicure  says  "don't  you?"  with 
minute  particularity  —  separating  the 
words.  Also,  she  says  "misc/wevious" 
and  suffers  from  a  "bronical  cough." 

But  why  all  this  idle  talk — when  nothing 
matters? 

145 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

I  hardly  think  so,  and  yet — it  would  have 
been  largely  on  his  account,  my  refusal. 
I  'd  have  been  afraid  of  getting  on  his 
nerves  with  my  capriciousness — and  my 
restless  ways.  He  is  restful. 

But  this  has  never  been  a  question.  I 
never  have  been — never,  that  is,  since  my 
widowhood — a  marrying  woman — either 
in  my  inner  consciousness  or  in  my  re 
lation  to  society.  I  hate  a  widow  with  a 
re-marrying  attitude. 

Of  course,  an  occasional  man  has  come 
along  who  thought  I  was  the  sort  of  woman 
to  make  him  happy — and  has  mentioned  it 
to  me — but  every  woman  has  that  sort  of 
thing.  "We  don't  think  anything  of  it  in 
the  South — but  New  York  is  different. 
Every  proposal  of  marriage  counts  in 
Gotham.  But  I  suppose  I  '11  have  men  say 
ing  things  to  me  until  I  'm  ready  to  die 
of  old  age — most  women  have,  probably. 
The  only  difference,  when  they  are  old,  is 
146 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

that  the  subject  is  broached  in  the  falsetto 
voices  of  either  extreme,  youth  or  senility. 
Few  middle-aged  men  make  love  to  middle- 
aged  women,  I  find. 

The  aged  seek  matrimony  rather  than  a 
special  woman  and  I  notice  that  when  an 
old  man  asks  a  woman  to  marry  him  and 
she  will  not,  he  very  soon  finds  one  who 
will.  Of  this  I  am  personally  sure- 
seven  times  sure. 

And  here  I  am,  generalizing  on  a  theme 
of  which  I  have  not  thought  seriously  for 
years.  My  life  seemed  full  and  tranquil, 
until  he  came  into  it — and  now,  it  is  all 
over — the  romance  which  was  never  be 
gun. 

Not  that  I  was  a  loveless,  detached  per 
son  before  the  casual  incoming  of  this 
man.  I  am  not  of  the  abnormal  type 
which  can  live  and  work — and  sing 
— without  love.  Ah,  no.  Far  from  it! 
Not  only  abstract  love,  but  love  particular- 
147 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

ized — arms-about-the-neck — such  love  as 
children  throw  into  a  mother's  soul  when 
they  wrap  themselves  about  her.  Love  in 
carnate,  personal,  prodigal  and  unreckon- 
ing — such  as  this  has  ever  been  as  essential 
to  my  being  as  pure  oxygen  to  my  broadly 
inflating  lungs.  Yes,  and  yet  I  have 
chosen  to  live  alone,  in  a  garret,  prac 
tically,  and  here  I  have  labored — and  slept 
— and  worked — AND  SUNG! 

And  why? 

"A  dog?  A  cat?  A  parrot?  A 
monkey?" 

Perish  the  thought!  No,  none  of  these 
nor  even  the  more  nearly  possible  canary. 
No  bird  or  beast  or  slight  intelligence 
could  ever  counterfeit  love  to  me  or  at 
tempt  to  satisfy  my  soul  with  the  limited 
triumph  of  the  inadequate. 

Not  that  I  do  not  love  a  dog  and  eschew 

cats  only  because  they  are  cats — but  no 

lower  beast  could  ever  knock  at  the  door 

of  my  holy  of  holies,  much  less  enter  in, 

148 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

by  bark  or  song.  The  open  sesame  must 
be  a  pass-word  from  a  soul  of  equal  height 
with  mine.  The  waters  must  be  "even.'' 

And  so — 

"A  memory?" 

Ah,  this  has  gone  far  enough — and  yet 
— why ' '  a  memory ' '  ?  One  word  is  enough. 
Behold  the  symbols  which  surround  me! 
A  baby's  miniature — that  little  clock — he 
made  that  with  his  own  hands,  my  hus 
band.  Yes,  he  was  a  lawyer,  not  a  clock- 
smith — made  it  on  a  bet  with  me,  when  he 
was  nineteen.  No,  it  never  kept  business 
time,  exactly.  He  called  it  Cupid's  clock, 
because  he  said  it  gave  a  fellow  a  chance. 
It  really  ran  very  little  and  kept  stopping. 
Ah,  how  frivolous  we  were — and  how 
young! 

And  how  happy!  The  joy  of  it  has 
sweetened  all  of  life  for  me — yes,  I  can 
say  that,  even  to-day,  when  I  am  more 
lonely  than  I  have  ever  been  in  all  my  life 
before. 

149 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

What  is  love  individualized?  Is  it  not, 
after  all,  a  mental  concept?  The  maiden 
who  sits  mooning,  gazing  into  the  blue,  and 
dreaming  dreams  of  the  miracle  which  she 
comprehends  not  at  all— who  shall  say  that 
she  is  loveless?  And  the  wizened  old  man 
in  the  almshouse  who  traces  "her"  out 
line  from  memory  in  the  light  of  his  charity 
fire,  why  is  he  smiling?  He  only  seems 
to  be  alone.  He  is  not,  for  when  the  last 
embers  shall  have  fallen,  he  will  still  see 
her,  in  his  dreams. 

This  is  not  bare  abstraction.  It  is  love 
personal,  incarnate — clothed  with  ' '  flesh  of 
dreams,"  maybe — but  which  is  the  dream? 

I  cannot  tell  precisely  when  I  first  knew 

that  I  cared  for  this  man — perhaps  not 

fully  until  now — it  seems  a  century  ago 

—when  I  saw  that  notice — a  death  notice 

for  me  in  the  marriage  column.     There 

are  landmarks,  though,  easily  traced,  which 

show  me  how  it  has  been  for  a  long  time. 

150 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

Vividly  do  I  recall  my  first  semi-awaken 
ing. 

We  were  going  up  the  steps  of  the  Arch 
itectural  League  Building  one  evening, 
when  I  tripped  on  my  skirt  and  had  nearly 
fallen  when  his  hand  caught  my  arm,  and 
a  quick,  "Oh,  my  dear!"  of  alarm,  fell 
upon  my  ear — and  into  my  soul. 

It  was  inadvertent,  and  meant  nothing, 
possibly,  excepting  that  his  reserve  was 
one  of  tenderness  to  women.  I  did  not 
think  it  meant  anything. 

And  yet,  perhaps  because  his  lips  were  so 
near  my  ear,  there  was  something  unspeak 
ably  precious  in  it.  For  me  it  spanned  the 
years  and  I  was  a  wife  again,  blessed, 
clothed  with  honor,  remembered  of 
Heaven. 

I  knew  that  it  was  probably  reminiscent 
— and  irrelevant.  And  yet,  he  was  never 
quite  the  same  to  me,  after  that.  In  an 
unguarded  moment  he  had  called  me  "my 
— but  he  said  it  as  only  one  other 
151 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

had  ever  done.  From  that  moment 
whether  I  would  or  no,  his  presence  was 
ever  with  me. 

It  was  one  of  the  sweetest  experiences 
of  my  life  when  I  let  myself  go  in  resting 
in  the  companionship  of  this  man.  If  I 
had  thought  of  marriage — or  of  having  him 
a  lover  declared — I  should  have  been  as 
perturbed  as  a  girl,  plus  the  fitting  fluster 
of  an  elderly  person  given  over  to  folly. 
How  absurd  I  should  have  known  myself 
to  be !  But  no.  My  romance  was  far  and 
away  superior  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

But  why  all  this?    He  is  married. 

If  I  had  only  known — or  suspected — 
that  he  might  go ! 

If  only  it  had  occurred  to  me  that  he 
might  think  of  marriage — and  another 
woman!  Could  I  have  tried  to  capture 
him?  I  do  not  know.  The  thing  is  so 
much  greater  than  I.  Perhaps  I  could 
never  have  manipulated  it — or  him  through 
it.  At  any  rate,  I  did  not  try.  For  me 
152 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

this  sort  of  thing  was  long  passed  and 
the  luxury  of  Love  was  a  gift  of  Heaven 
— dropped  into  my  hand.  I  wanted  no  re 
turn  in  kind.  A  conventional  declaration 
would  have  vulgarized  my  happiness — and 
it  would  have  flown.  A  pressure  of  the 
hand — 1 

No,  I  wanted — God  knows  what  I 
wanted.  I  suppose  I  was  a  fool.  I  wanted 
to  think  of  him  every  day,  when  he  came 
and  when  he  didn't — and  to  believe  that, 
if  he  should  ever  forget  himself  again,  he 
would  call  me  "my  dear" — but  only  if  he 
forgot. 

I  used  to  have  a  merry  little  feeling  of 
mischief  within  me  in  having  a  secret  from 
him. 

That  woman — she  whose  name  got  the 
edge  of  my  cream  this  morning — has  no 
more  soul  than  a  bean  arbor.  Indeed,  that 
is  a  most  inapt  comparison,  for,  of  all 
vines,  the  bean  is  one  of  the  most  kindly, 
the  most  beneficent,  the  most  generous, 
153 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

most  prodigal  of  self — and  I  am  sure  it  has 
a  good  womanly  soul  with  a  love  for  chil 
dren  and  tendrils  of  compassionate  reaches 
toward  old  age. 

Its  great  benediction  of  greenery  is  not 
for  itself  alone  but  for  all  who  would  have 
grateful  shade  without  stint  or  meas 
ure.  No,  let  me  drop  that  comparison,  for 
the  vine's  sake. 

The  name  which  grows  more  distinct  as 
the  oil  penetrates  the  paper — this  name 
stands  for  so  many  respectable  things  that 
I  prove  my  hardihood  while  I  hold  it  up 
for  scrutiny. 

She  was  asked  to  dine  at  the  house  in 
Washington  Square  where,  with  a  gentle 
deaf  twin  sister,  also  unmarried,  he  lives 
in  the  crystallized  elegance  of  a  bygone 
period.  She  went — she  saw — and  she  laid 
siege — to  the  ear-trumpet!  The  canny 
diplomat !  And  that  evening  she  began  to 
set  the  type  for  this  wedding-notice. 

So  she  proceeded,  with  no  such  handi- 
154 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

cap  of  cardiac  disturbance  as  would  have 
been  my  undoing,  had  I  even  considered  so 
brave  a  campaign.  I  should  have  been  un 
able  to  avoid  his  eyes — those  small,  in 
consequent  dear,  direct,  blue  eyes  before 
which  I  have  no  reason  to  quail. 

They  would  have  overridden  me — ac 
cused  me.  I  should  have  hated  myself — 
hated  his  lovely  old  house  with  its  queer 
ungainly  furniture  which  has  been  my  de 
light — even  hated  him,  after  a  while, 
maybe — hated  the  whole  business — and 
floundered. 

Or,  if  I  had  resolutely  undertaken  to 
marry  him,  willy  nilly,  I  might — 

No,  no,  no!  I  could  not!  I  am  a 
woman  and — well,  my  sort  of  woman  can  Jt 
do  the  chasing.  Much  is  written  these  days 
about  the  new  woman — or  the  new  way— 
or  new  interpretations  of  the  old  way. 
One  has  told  us  about  superman.  Per 
haps  the  difference  is  as  between  super  and 
sub. 

155 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

No,  my  holy  passion  is  of  so  fine  a  flame 
that  it  will  burn  as  clearly  now,  being  with 
out  dross,  as  it  did  that  evening  when 
I  trod  on  my  skirt  and  tripped  into 
Heaven. 

Well,  it  's  the  way  of  the  world !  One 
woman  loves  a  man — and  another  marries 
him. 

I  say  he  jilted  me  and  so  he  did — al 
though  he  is  ethically  innocent  of  the  crime. 
Or  I  hope  he  is.  If  he  suspected  me — then 
he  is  guilty — but  no.  He  did  not  suspect. 
He  realized  that  I  had  too  much  sense — 
was  too  well  poised — would  have  been  too 
proud.  And  I  had  had  my  romance.  So 
had  he.  She  died  at  seventeen  when  he 
was  twenty. 

No,  I  feel  that  my  secret  is  safe,  even 
in  face  of  the  fact  that  man,  generically 
and  specifically,  is  vainglorious  and  con 
ceited. 

Knowing  me  as  well  as  he  did,  he  could 
156 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

not  have  suspected  me.  Indeed,  knowing 
myself  as  well  as  I  do,  I  am  mystified. 

Why,  by  all  that  is  sacred,  did  I  en 
courage  this  quiet  man  to  come  and  sit, 
evening  after  evening,  just  filling  a  chair 
— of  course,  he  could  not  know  that  he  filled 
mv  iife — when  there  were  a  dozen  other 
men,  full  of  jest  and  sparkle  and  far  more 
in  sympathy  with  my  work,  for  whom  I 
never  could  find  time!  Why,  I  say,  ex 
cepting  because  things  were  as  I  have  con 
fessed. 

I  feel  sure  he  did  not  suspect  and  yet, 
my  secret  may  have  been  written  all  over 
me,  scribbled  on  my  breast.  It  may  have 
dripped  from  the  fringe  of  my  sleeves — 
enveloped  me,  as  a  mist. 

The  tones  of  my  voice  were  different, 
in  speaking  to  him.  This  I  knew,  but  I 
was  fearless  as  he  could  not  know  how  I 
spoke  to  others.  Just  the  simple  love-to- 
have-him-near  and  the  peace-of-the-long- 
157 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

evenings  when  he  stayed  and  talked 
quietly,  of  common  things — just  the  sweet 
contentment  of  it  may  have  found  expres 
sion  in  my  voice — and  now,  I  almost  hope 
it  did. 

If  this  woman  really  loved  him,  I  should 
not  mind — so  much;  or  if  he  loved  her — 
which  he  does  not  and  never  will. 

She  had  all  she  wanted  but  one  thing — 
the  prestige  of  a  dignified  home,  with  a 
man  of  place  at  the  head  of  it — a  better- 
than-hotel  address  from  which  to  issue  her 
cards — a  table-of-hospitality  and  a  ret 
inue,  with  horses  and  motor-cars,  of  her 
own. 

And  so, — and  so — ? 

I  don't  know  anything  about  it.  Maybe 
it  is  well  with  him,  after  all. 

What  is  love,  anyway?  Is  it  a  mental 
habit — or  vibration — or  a  hoodoo — or  all 
three  and  more!  Who  knows? 

Who  knows  anything? 

Perhaps,  after  all,  "Whatever  is,  is 
158 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

right, "  as  the  transgressors  claim.     And 
yet — 

For  a  material  consideration,  I  am 
robbed  of  a  sweet  companionship  which 
can  count  for  nothing  to  the  despoiler  of 
my  peace,  for  she  loves  a  breeze,  and  he 
is  a  quiet  man.  He  is  clear  of  intellect 
and  discerns  every  shade  of  difference  be 
tween  white  and  near-white,  truth  and  half- 
truth — while  she  is  dense — and  correct— 
and  strong  in  faith  in  the  Apostles'  Creed 
and  the  Ten  Commandments.  And  she 
would  consider  me  wholly  dishonored  if 
she  knew  how  I  miss,  and  shall  miss  her 
husband. 

•  ••••• 

This  is  all  wrong,  this  wail. 

Perhaps  it  is  well  that  he  is  married — 
and  even  to  her.  He  is  fine  and  sensitive, 
tempered  as  refined  steel,  and  her  im 
perturbable  stupidity  may  be  his  pillow 
ing.  He  will  rest  in  it — and  when  he  flies 
off  the  handle,  as  he  is  bound  to  do,  once 
159 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

in  a  while,  and  she  coddles  him  blindly, 
ignoring  his  real  grievance,  he  will  buy  an 
other  ring  for  her  fat  fingers — to  make 
amends  for  her  vacuity — although  he  may 
not  know  it. 

Yes,  I  can  follow  them  along.  But  some 
day,  he  will  wake  and  see  her,  as  she  is 
—mediocre,  tiresome,  consistent,  impos 
sible — bromide  of  bromides.  Then,  he 
will  be  better  to  her  than  ever.  But  he 
will  spend  more  time  at  the  club.  Always 
suspect  a  man  when  he  begins  to  be 
"better  than  ever"  to  a  tiresome  woman. 
He  has  found  a  perspective. 

Of  course,  I  shall  see  little  of  them.  It 
is  best  so — although  there  has  never  been 
anything  between  us. 

I  am  better-looking  than  she  and  younger 
and  I  have  more  sense,  more  heart,  more 
style,  more  temperament.  I  mean  to  say  I 
have  temperament.  She  has  more  money 
than  I — but  I  never  cared  for  money. 
They  were  both  rich  enough  before,  so, 
160 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

probably  they  don't  care,  either — so  long 
as  the  money  is  there.  I  don't  care  when 
it  isn't  there. 

She  had  everything  but  a  fixed  social 
place  and  an  establishment.  These  she 
wanted — and  she  got  them. 

I  loved  him,  and  I  wanted  nothing — and 
I  got  it — and  yet  I  seem  to  have  a  griev 
ance. 

To  love  and  to  lose  is  high  fate! 
•  •  •  .  . 

Here  I  stand  talking,  and  the  north  light 
wasting.  It  must  be—  What  is  that! 
The  little  clock-— David's  clock— striking 
two,  so  it  must  be  nearly  three,  at  least. 
You  can  always  depend  upon  David's  clock 
for  one  thing:  when  it  strikes,  there  's  no 
time  to  lose. 

How  weird  my  laughter  sounds  against 
your  striking,  dear  little  clock— dear, 
crazy  little  clock ! 

We  are  nearer  than  ever  to  each  other 
now,  little  clock,  you  and  I.    It  seems  ages 
161 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

ago — and  the  past  is  with  me  again.  You 
and  the  little  shoe  seem  to  nestle  against 
my  heart  to-day — 

Your  striking  admonishes  me  that  she 
was  coming  at  three,  the  old  model  who  is 
to  pose  for  the  long-delayed  picture.  The 
afternoon  sun  is  in  those  nasturtiums  now 
and  she  will  be  arriving — the  pitiful  old, 
old  woman  who  will  impersonate  ",Woe," 
and  who  declares  she  has  had  nothing  in 
life  but  disappointment  and  want — nothing 
but  woe.  Never  love. 

And  yet,  she  refused  to  allow  me  to  un 
fasten  the  old  locket  which  she  wears  about 
her  neck  on  the  faded  string  with  the 
Agnus  Dei — not  even  for  a  moment  that 
I  might  examine  it. 

She  lies.  She  is  love's  wreckage  and 
this  is  its  symbol,  this  miserable,  dirty 
locket  with  the  cracked  enamel. 

She  has  exactly  what  I  have — only 
symbols.  We  are  sisters.  Ah,  me! 
They  are  the  most  enduring  possessions, 
162 


THE  AFTEBGLOW 

after  all — and  the  poorer,  the  more  in 
tangible,  the  surer.  Were  she  to  lose  the 
cherished  locket,  that  which  gives  it  value 
would  still  be  hers  in  Memory — and  with 
less  care  to  keep.  My  wee  shoe  of  fading 
blue — 

How  all  things  seem  to  pass  before  me 
this  morning,  in  the  light — I  mean  to  say 
in  the  shade  of  this  fresh  sorrow ! 

Dear  God!  And  it  is  true.  He  is  mar 
ried.  If  only  I  had  realized  that  the  hours 
were  precious  with  him — and  tried — 

And  what  about  my  pictures — my  work 
— the  work  which  has  been  languishing — 
playing  around  old  stakes  instead  of  going 
ahead,  these  last  four  years? 

What  about  consecration — and  the  di 
vine  fire — and — ? 

Bless  the  good  God!  Who  cares  about 
these  things  when  Love  comes  and  it  is 
October — and  the  roses  are  red  with  full 
ness  of  life  and  the  cider-mills  are  busy 
and  the  hills  aflame?  Who  says  I  am 
163 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

alone!  Only  one  symbol  poorer  am  I, 
now  that  he  is  gone.  He  was  but  a  sym 
bol. 

I  never  loved  him.    I  loved  ease  and 
companionship — and  these  he  typified. 
•  ••••• 

Here  she  is,  now — the  old  model.  She 
always  forgets  the  bell  and  knocks  at  the 
door  with  her  bare  knuckles — like  death. 

Poor,  bereft,  lonely  human!  I  must 
meet  her,  smiling: 

"Good  afternoon,  dear  Miss  Flannahan! 
And  how  are  you,  this  lovely  day?  Do 
come  and  have  a  cup  of  tea.  I  recognized 
your  familiar  rap  and  I  lit  the  flame  under 
the  kettle  before  I  let  you  in.  And  this 
cream — delight  me  by  taking  it.  I  forgot 
it  this  morning. 

"What 's  that  you  say?    I  forgot  it  'be 
cause  I  was  so  happy'?    Well,  maybe  so. 
They  say  we  never  know  when  we   are 
happy.    To  be  sure,  I  've  been  pottering 
164 


THE  AFTEBGLOW 

around,  talking  to  my  things — and  laugh 
ing — ever  since  I  got  up. 

"Sit  here,  dear  Miss  Flannahan — on  the 
divan  where  you  can't  help  seeing  my 
nasturtium-box  catching  fire  in  the  sun — 
and  while  you  take  your  tea,  I  '11  go  and  set 
the  easel  in  the  north  window. 

"Aad- 

"Oh,  dear  Miss  Flannahan,  do  smile  that 
way  again!  I  wonder  if  you  could?  It 
is  great!  Oh,  it  is  magnificent!  The 
nasturtium  flames  pale  before  it ! 

"Oh,  Miss  Flannahan,  I  wonder  what  is 
happening!  Something  is  being  enacted 
within  me,  as  I  stand  in  this  shaft  of  light 
— it  is  a  miracle. 

"Do  I  look  strange,  I  wonder?  Is  it  a 
transfiguration?  Is  it  inspiration?  God 
has  remembered  us — set  us  apart — given 
us  a  commission,  you  and  me. 

"That  wan  smile — 
165 


THE  AFTEEGLOW 

"We  are  to  have  a  great  picture!  Oh, 
what  it  must  have  cost  you — and  what  it 
is  costing  me ! 

"Surrender!  That's  the  word — then 
come  peace — and  the  afterglow.  Sunset 
and  a  red  sky. 

' '  I  have  changed  the  name  of  the  picture 
— the  great  picture  which  we  are  to  do  to 
gether — you  and  I,  with  our  symbols  about 
us — symbols  of  surrender — renunciation. 
Your  smile  changed  it. 

"We  will  call  it  'The  Afterglow'! 

"There  will  be  those  who  will  say  that 
it  should  have  been  named  *  Faith'  or  *  Im 
mortality,'  or  one  of  a  dozen  abstractions, 
but  we  shall  know  better,  you  and  I — yes, 
we  shall  know.  It  will  mean  Love  buried 
out  of  sight  but  still  ours — Love  which 
earth  cannot  take  away — Love  which  is  imr 
mortal — which  is  divine.  Divinity  never 
was.  It  is. 

"The  precious  baby  curl — this  absurd 
little  clock  which  he  made  with  his  own 
166 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

hands,  my  lover — and  that  empty  chair, 
turned  as  he  left  it,  where  a  lost  comrade 
sat  less  than  a  month  ago — the  locket  which 
you  will  not  let  me  take  from  your  neck— 

"We  may  lose  them,  for  they  are  only 
symbols  of  symbols — but  that  which  makes 
them  precious — it  is  ours — yours  and  mine. 
Nothing  can  rob  us  of — 

"Forgive  me!  Do  forgive  me!  I  have 
hurt  you — I  did  not  mean — I  was  cruel — • 
but  I  won't  again,  no,  not  again — 

"But  you  will  smile  for  me — again — as 
you  did — 1  And  oh,  what  a  picture  we 
shall  have ! 

"I  want  to  tell  you  something,  Miss 
Flannahan.  Only  those  who  are  permitted 
to  empty  the  cup  of  life  may  taste  of  im 
mortality  in  its  dregs  before  the  grave. 
There  is  a  cup  of  death,  but  of  this  I  do 
not  speak.  But  I  won't  talk  of  sorrow  any 
more,  dear  Miss  Flannahan — positively 
not. 

"Yes,  I  am  a  little  queer — don't  try  to 
167 


THE  AFTERGLOW 

understand  or  to  follow.  Just  know  that 
there  is  a  bond  between  us — the  bond 
of  suffering — of  renunciation.  It  has  left 
you  a  smile  which  will  send  a  gleam  of 
hope  down  the  ages — if  I,  to  whom  it 
has  left  energy  and  a  clearing — if  I  prove 
fit. 

"Ah,  the  clearing!  The  empty,  lonely 
clearing  in  which  to  work!  How  long  I 
have  been  playing ! 

"What  is  a  sunset  and  a  red  sky? 

"The  great  picture  will  tell — and  the 
people  will  kneel,  and  believe !  The  great 
picture! — THE  AFTERGLOW  !" 


THE  END 


168 


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